


Fair Play

by manic_intent



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, NOTE: MOST OF THIS FIC IS T-RATED, That fic where Jim gets very drunk after the events in s1e4, and ends up having to go back to Wayne Manor with Alfred, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-21 12:32:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2468324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred was clearing up Bruce’s supper - milk partly drunk, sandwich untouched - when the house phone rang. Given the lateness of the hour, and the number of people who actually <i>had</i> access to the house number, the identity of the caller was perhaps obvious, and it wasn’t lost on his ward. </p><p>Bruce’s eyebrows lifted. “It’s a little late for Detective Gordon to be calling.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I watched Gotham and…  
> I don’t even know, it’s not THAT great a show and I’m still in love with the Nolan version, but… lol. How did I even ship…? I blame Sean Pertwee’s Cockney accent. It is hot. 
> 
> Anyway, for those who have stuck it this far, here’s Gotham’s Jim Gordon:  
> 
> 
> and here’s Gotham’s ~~Inspector Lestrade~~ Alfred:  
> 
> 
> This takes place after s1e4. For those who aren’t going to watch Gotham, here’s the summary so far under the spoiler space:
> 
> S
> 
> P
> 
> O
> 
> I
> 
> L
> 
> E
> 
> R
> 
> As at s1e4, Bruce Wayne’s parents have been murdered. He’s living with Alfred in Wayne Manor, Alfred is his guardian/butler. Jim Gordon is a freshie policeman with a corrupt older partner, Harvey Bullock. His gf is Barbara Kean. The Gotham Police are controlled by Don Falcone, a mobster, and Don Falcone forces Jim to shoot a snitch, Oswald Cobblepot (the future Penguin). Jim only pretends to kill Oswald. However, Major Crimes detective Montoya (ex lover of Barbara) thinks he did it, and warns Barbara. Barbara breaks up with Jim, “It’s me or the job!” 
> 
> *deep breath*
> 
> Yeah. It’s Batman The Sitcom, lol.

I.

Alfred was clearing up Bruce’s supper - milk partly drunk, sandwich untouched - when the house phone rang. Given the lateness of the hour, and the number of people who actually _had_ access to the house number, the identity of the caller was perhaps obvious, and it wasn’t lost on his ward.

Bruce’s eyebrows lifted. “It’s a little late for Detective Gordon to be calling.” 

“Bloody rude of him to be,” Alfred muttered, but he fished out the phone from its cradle anyway, balancing it between shoulder and cheek as he answered, stacking plates onto a tray. “Pennyworth.”

“ _’eyyyy_ ,” slurred a gruff voice that most certainly was not Detective Gordon, with the familiarity of the very drunk. “Penny _what_ again? You Jim’s friend?”

“Who’s this?”

“Ha-arvey. The _best_ partner _ever_. Best partner! ‘ey. Jim. S’okay. Just let it aaaall out. Better out than in, son.” Alfred grimaced as he heard the sound of someone noisily throwing up in the background. “Just so y’know. Y’know. Some wimmin, they ain’t cut out t’be cop wives. Thassall. Notyourfault.” 

Harvey. Harvey _Bullock_ , that was it. _Detective_ Bullock, at that. Alfred pinched the bridge of his nose, and ignoring Bruce’s curious stare, set down the tray. “Are the both of you inebriated?” 

“Inebri… ebri… we’re pretty smashed,” Harvey agreed expansively. “Y’see. Jim here, just got dumped by his wimmin. Womens. Woman. And he got nooo place t’go and I don’t have’ta room so, he mentioned your number. You a friend?” 

“Alfred?” Bruce asked, peering up at him, and Alfred covered the receiver of the phone briefly with a palm. 

“It appears that Detective Gordon has some…” Alfred grimaced, “Personal problems to sort out.” 

“Well,” Bruce said, sounding puzzled, “If he needs our help in some way, then we should extend it.” 

“Oh we should, should we?” 

“Yes, Alfred. See to it please, would you?” Bruce got up from his desk to leave the drawing room, and Alfred internalised a sigh, holding the phone back up to his ear. 

“Detectives? Your location, please.” 

The ‘location’ turned out to be a cop bar, and ‘Harvey’ was indeed Detective Harvey Bullock, several pints of beer worse for wear but loudly exclaiming that he didn’t yet need to leave. So Alfred hauled Gordon away instead, pouring him into the backseat of the Bentley and hoping devoutly to the Gods of ex-Marines and Butlers alike that Gordon wouldn’t throw up on the upholstery. 

Thankfully, Gordon was out like a light, and the drive back was sedate, even if the car stank of beer and the sour hint of vomit by the time Alfred pulled into the manor’s garage. With another sigh, Alfred half-carried, half-dragged Gordon to the nearest guest bedroom, settling the unconscious detective in the tub of the ensuite bathroom, rolled up his sleeves, and started to wipe down the worst of the mess with a towel. 

“Alfred?” 

“ _Jesus_!” Alfred flinched. Fuck, but sometimes the young master could be a really creepy little kid. “What did I say about sneaking up on people, ‘ey?" 

Bruce ignored him, inching over, and then wrinkling his nose. “He’s been drinking.” 

“Got thrown out on his arse by his missus,” Alfred shrugged. “Apparently.” He loosened Gordon’s tie, then as an afterthought, removed it altogether. “I’ll get these clothes laundered and pour him into one of the guest beds." 

“Thrown out?” Bruce looked bewildered. “Why?” 

Alfred shrugged again. “No use speculating without data. You can ask him in the morning, if he’s not dead from a hangover.” 

“Surely not,” Bruce protested. “Is it that bad?” 

Some of Alfred’s irritation ebbed. For good or for ill, Bruce _was_ attached to Gordon, for all that Gordon was a bit of a sorry excuse for a detective at the moment. And Alfred supposed that Gordon himself was still young enough for a few drunken infractions to be forgiven here and there. Not to mention that the poor man did have some sort of justifiable cause. Probably. 

“Perhaps it’s time to rest, Master Bruce,” Alfred said finally. “I’ll update you on Detective Gordon in the morning. Man just needs to sleep it off.” 

“All right,” Bruce said, if a little doubtfully. “Good night, Alfred.” 

Alfred nodded, waited until Bruce was most probably gone, then stripped Gordon down to his boxers, as efficiently as he could. The offending clothes were piled in the sink, shoes and all, and Alfred hesitated for a moment, hand frozen over a clean towel. 

Even unconscious, mouth slack, flush from drinking and a little green about the gills, Gordon was a handsome young man, and he obviously kept himself fit. Alfred tried not to look his fill - everything about _that_ was highly inappropriate - but he couldn’t help it, after all, studying the dips and hard lines of well-defined muscle, a little greedily. There were a few scars, particularly a nasty one high over his hip that looked like an old shrapnel wound, and under his shirt, Gordon was still wearing his dog tags. 

Army boys. You could take a kid out of the army but the army had their claws in his hide forever more. Shaking his head slowly, Alfred cleaned Gordon up, hauled him over to the guest bed, and rolled him in, as gently as he could, then tucked the sheets over him. 

“Barbara?” Gordon murmured, frowning a little, and again, Alfred hesitated, then he sighed, and patted Jim on the back. 

“Might want to leave that thought for now, son,” Alfred whispered, not really expecting Gordon to register his voice, but Gordon mumbled something, his breathing evening out again. “Whatever you did, you poor bastard,” Alfred added, “Maybe it’ll be all better on the morrow.” 

1.0.

Jim woke up when the sun fell in a ruthless shaft over his face, and he groaned, rolling over and burrowing back into the sheets.

Very soft sheets. Huge bed. Someone in the room. Unsettled, Jim sat up in bed, blinking owlishly, and God but he felt like hell: his mouth tasted awful and he had a pounding headache, but the disorientation was the worst of it, as he looked around in a huge, luxurious, Victorian-furnished room. Four-poster bed, antique oak furniture, plush carpet, paintings in sleek mahogany frames. The sunlight was coming from tall windows, the curtains just pulled aside, and beside it, Alfred _Pennyworth_ was philosophically laying out a tray of breakfast at the table, a generous helping of eggs, toast, sausages, bacon and spinach.

“Coffee or tea, Detective?” Alfred asked politely, in a briskly aggressive way that was somehow reminiscent of an opening salvo from entrenched infantry.

“What.” Jim rubbed at his eyes. “How did I… is this…”

“Master Bruce was hoping to be able to dine with you this morning,” Alfred continued, as though he hadn’t spoken, “But I wasn’t entirely sure what flavour of hangover you might be going through. Sir.” 

Jim winced. Alfred’s tone was inflectionless, but his disapproval was obvious all the same. “Uh. I. Thanks. Um. I’ll have the coffee. Sorry. About any trouble.”

Alfred nodded, and removed a pot from the spread. “There’s aspirin on the side table and your clothes have been laundered and pressed. When you’re presentable again, Master Bruce awaits your company in the Blue Drawing room.” 

Blinking, Jim found himself left to his own devices, and he slunk over to the bathroom. A toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste had been left out for him, and he cleaned up, had a shower, then changed into his clothes. The breakfast was cooling by this point, but Jim was ravenous anyway, and ate every bit of it. By the time he had drained the pot of coffee and had some aspirin, he felt almost human again. 

Stacking the plates, pot, cup and cutlery into a pile, Jim carried it out of the room, intending to find the kitchen to do the dishes, but nearly walked right into Alfred instead, impeccable in a vest and sleeved shirt as he raised an eyebrow at Jim, took the dishes wordlessly, and before Jim could offer to help, noted, “Master Bruce will see you now.” 

“Uh. Right. Thanks. For breakfast?” 

“Very good, sir,” Alfred said, almost in a drawl, though his expression didn’t change, and Jim had to turn away quickly before Alfred saw him blushing like a schoolboy caught with a hand in a cookie jar. He couldn’t possibly embarrass himself more than he already had.

Hopefully. 

It took a few wrong turns before Jim finally found the ‘Blue Drawing Room’, which turned out to be the sunward-facing room with the set of giant French windows, opening out towards the part of the vast gardens with the maze, stocked with an antique writing desk, a merrily-burning fireplace, warding off the morning’s chill, and great oak shelves, that stretched ranks of leather-bound books across the cavernous walls. Bruce glanced up from a folder of documents when Jim awkwardly knocked on the door, and waved him to a seat, imperious as a commanding officer even at his age.

Weird little kid. Not that it could be helped.

“Sorry,” Jim started by apologising. “I’m very sorry to have put all of you to all this trouble.”

“It was nothing,” Bruce said blithely, forever taking his guardian’s services for granted, of course. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m very sorry.”

“Even the police are human, Detective,” Bruce noted mildly. “Alfred called the precinct and told them that you were too ill to work today.”

“Oh, uh.” That was going to be one for the damned books: Harvey was never going to let him live that down. Jim tried not to grimace. “Thanks. I’ll, uh, get out of your hair.”

“You have no place to stay at present?”

“Yeah. I’ll book into a hotel. It’ll probably just be a temporary thing,” Jim added, wondering why he was trying to justify himself to a boy, even if the boy _was_ Bruce Wayne.

“Actually,” Bruce noted, “This is a very big house, with plenty of guest rooms. Until you get back on your feet, I’ll be pleased to offer you one.” 

“No, no, I couldn’t possibly-“

“It’ll be the least that I could do, given what _you_ have done for my family and for Gotham to date. I insist.”

“Uh, well, but I can’t just-“

“Then it’s settled,” Bruce said blandly, and turned a page in his folder. 

Jim opened his mouth, about to argue further, then he hesitated. “Is that one of the Arkham files? Why are you looking at it?”

“I’m comparing my mother’s original plans for the asylum to Don Falcone’s,” Bruce said absently.

“But…” Jim trailed off. “Bruce, I really am still working your case,” he said, trying to sound gentle. “There’s no need to worry yourself about it. I’m doing my best.” Bruce glanced at him, his eyes steely and penetrating, even for one so young, and Jim found himself stumbling on, “I mean, surely, uh, surely you have school work to do, and, and-“ 

“I’m home-schooled,” Bruce said mildly. “Tutors come by on a roster. The syllabus is tailored specifically for me.” 

Jim had the sinking feeling that despite his few forays into the mansion to date, he still had absolutely no idea how the wildly rich lived their lives. “Well then, ah, what about going out with friends, or… baseball, or… things…” He trailed off under Bruce’s stare. 

“Thank you for your concern, Detective.” 

Jim gave up. “Right. Well. Thanks again for your help.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the precinct. Thanks for helping me call in sick, but I have a lot of work to do.” 

“All right,” Bruce nodded. “I’ll see you back at the mansion in the evening, then. Dinner is at eight.” 

Under Bruce’s even stare, Jim found himself nodding, excusing himself, and backing hurriedly out of the drawing room, where he promptly nearly tripped over Alfred. Again. 

“‘Baseball or things’?” Alfred asked, very dryly, but this time round, Jim could sense amusement.

“Isn’t that what kids do?” Jim asked defensively.

“Very good, sir,” Alfred replied, which by now Jim understood was Alfred’s polite way of saying ‘You’re a bloody idiot, you pillock’. “Will we be seeing sir at eight for dinner?”

“Uh, sure. Look, Alfred,” Jim added quickly. “About me staying here, it’s not really… I didn’t push for it, all right? I’m just as happy to stay at a hotel. I’m sorry to trouble you. And Bruce.”

“On the contrary,” Alfred said mildly, “Guests are always a pleasure.”

“Right. Well. I don’t think I’ve had enough coffee to know whether you were being sarcastic.”

“With the British,” Alfred said, though his tone seemed to thaw a little, “It’s best to assume the worst, Detective. And as I said before, the boy could use the company. Would you like to borrow one of the cars?”

“No, uh, I’ll manage.” 

“It’s a fair walk to the tube.” 

Tube? Ah yes. Alfred was British. “That’s fine.” 

“I’ll drive you to the nearest station,” Alfred decided. “Or you might get lost and break your neck, and I can’t be traipsing about the woods at my age, looking for bodies.”

Alfred didn’t even crack a smile, and Jim stared at him helplessly for a moment before nodding slowly. “Sorry to trouble you.”

“Very good, sir,” Alfred noted, though this time he did smile, very faintly and briefly, when Jim grimaced, and stepped briefly into the drawing room to have a word with Bruce. 

The drive out of the vast gates of Wayne Manor was silent, until Jim started to worry, if belatedly. “Should we, uh, should you really be leaving Bruce alone in there? I mean. Given.” _Burning, and cutting_ , Alfred had said helplessly, uncharacteristically un-British for all of five minutes. 

“He’s improved,” Alfred said, his tone clipped. “Also. If it would not be presumptuous of me to ask. Why did you fall out with the missus?”

Jim pulled a face, almost tempted to brush off the question, but he was all too aware that he had been a trial on Alfred’s nerves all morning, and possibly all night. “Work,” he said finally, uncomfortably.

“She finally realized what being a copper’s wife meant?”

“Well,” Jim said helplessly, “Well no. We uh. I’ve got secrets. Part of the job, right? She said she didn’t want there to be any secrets between us. Said she couldn’t live that way. So we… disagreed. Right in the middle of the precinct,” Jim added, a little bitterly. “She walked out on me. I guess I should’a seen it coming. It was my fault.” 

“So,” Alfred said thoughtfully, “Was just a polite disagreement, then.” 

“Well yes, it was in the precinct,” Jim said, puzzled, then Alfred’s tone caught on, and he flushed darkly. “I would _never_ , if that’s what you’re implying, I would _never_ raise my hand to any woman.” 

“Right,” Alfred said calmly. “I believe you. Good.”

All the outrage left Jim in a sudden, cold flush. “What were you going to… if that hadn’t been the case?”

“Well,” Alfred noted dryly, “I would have let you off here, driven back to the house, and told Master Bruce that I was very sorry, but you would not be coming over for dinner, on account of you possibly having broken an arm. Or your neck. It’s all relative. Can’t abide beaters, coppers or not. Wouldn’t want that sort hanging about the young master, either.”

“… Suddenly, I’m beginning to understand why the manor doesn’t have a security detail.” 

Alfred grunted. “Not that it was worth bloody much on that night. The lady said it was a nice night,” Alfred added bitterly, before Jim could ask. “Said they didn’t want me to drive over and pick them up. Said they wanted to walk a while, and cab it back. Nice _bloody_ night that turned out to be.”

Jim stared down at his hands. He _had_ wondered about that. Why would the richest people in this side of the country want to ‘catch a cab’ back home? When they had a personal live-in butler/bodyguard/assistant at their beck and call? “I’m still working the case,” he said, despite how pathetic that had to sound. 

“Sure.” Alfred said mildly. “How’s that going for you?”

“I’ve got a new lead. I’ll keep you updated,” Jim said firmly, as much as he was sure that the quirk to Alfred’s mouth was probably condescension. 

“Very good, sir. Master Bruce does so look forward to all your updates.” 

Jim winced. “I’m sorry it’s taking so long, all right? I have to work it on my own time. On the fly.” 

“I wasn’t being sarcastic, Detective.” Alfred had just exited out of the private road that led to the manor, slipping into traffic with ease, and the closest station was just a block away from that. As Jim got out of the car, still self-conscious, Alfred added, “Dinner is at eight.” 

“Yeah. Okay.” Jim hesitated, then he said quickly, “Uh. Have a nice day.” 

Alfred raised his eyebrows, very slightly, and now he seemed amused. “As you should, sir. As _you_ should.”

It took half an hour for Jim to make his way back to the precinct and slink his way over to his desk. Across, over the computer, Harvey looked surprised: and none the worse for wear, annoyingly enough, given that the pub crawl had been _his_ idea to start with. “Didn’t think you were coming in today.”

“I felt better after a coffee.” Jim waited for Harvey to say something about Barbara, or Bruce Wayne, or worse, but Harvey only studied him for a long moment before he grunted.

“Well, it’s a good thing you came in,” Harvey muttered. “Captain wants to see us in five.”


	2. Chapter 2

II.

If there was one thing that made the whole fiasco worthwhile, it was Bruce’s appetite returning. Even if the boy was obviously very taken by the idea of investigating his own parents’ deaths, straining to find some sort of _reason_ behind it all, some _meaning_. Alfred kept his peace. He’d seen the same before, when he’d been a Marine. People died. Survivors always tried to understand why, even when cruel chance was usually the answer.

Still, any day in which Bruce wasn’t trying to ‘conquer fear’ was a good day, and Alfred decided, in a fit of extravagance, to prepare a right proper dinner: spiced pumpkin soup, slow roast duck with orange gravy, roast rosemary potatoes rolled in the drippings, confit carrots, fennel and apple salad and his mum’s yorkshire pudding. 

The pudding was just about starting to rise nicely when the doorbell rang, and Alfred checked the feed from the security room, then pressed the gate button to admit Gordon’s car. It was a dented old thing, probably borrowed off the precinct, and when Alfred entered the garage, Gordon had self-consciously squeezed the car in a corner, as far away from the Bentley and the Aston Martin as possible. 

He was also hauling out a thickly stuffed khaki duffel bag, Army-issue by the look of it, and smiled a little sheepishly when Alfred approached. “Got my things from, um, Barbara’s place.”

“No hurt feelings?”

Gordon grimaced. “Plenty of hurt feelings. But she doesn’t want my stuff at her place any more than I do. We’re… we both think a break is good, for now,” Gordon added, a little awkwardly. 

“May I help you with your bags?”

“Uh, this is the only one. I can manage.”

“I’ll show you to your room.”

“Um, if it’s the one from yesterday, I can manage. Don’t want to be a bother.” 

“Yesterday’s room was one of convenience, Detective. A proper guest room has been prepared for your stay.”

Gordon looked somewhat overwhelmed at that, but he nodded and followed meekly enough. That counted in the detective’s favour, Alfred decided. In his experience as the Waynes’ retainer, most people exposed to the Waynes’ wealth either reacted with envy or opportunism. A few with indifference - those with wealth of their own, at least. And a handful like Gordon: a precious few of them - were simply uncomfortable, not wanting to presume. Gordon was honest, and he was humble, Alfred could see that much. A good man. 

Precious few of that in _Gotham_.

“Dinner will be served in the dining room,” Alfred told Jim, when he showed Jim into the far more stately Lincoln Rooms, and left unobtrusively while Jim was still gawking. 

Bruce was already seated, looking attentive as Alfred busied himself laying out the table settings. “Detective Gordon came for dinner?”

“You _did_ invite him,” Alfred pointed out mildly. “Having second thoughts, are we?”

“Not at all,” Bruce said, a little reproachfully. “I was just wondering if he might be working late.”

“Not today, perhaps. He brought his kit. From the missus’ place, I don’t wonder.”

“Oh.” Bruce squirmed a little, then he burst out, “I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding. Isn’t it? Even my parents, sometimes they had disagreements.” 

“Best not to ask,” Alfred advised. “Got to still be a wee bit of a sore point, don’t you think?” 

“Ah. Yes.” Bruce at least still had the grace to look slightly embarrassed, and Alfred bit down on his sigh. 

Even if Bruce had been by any means an ordinary child, in terms of position, inheritance and his bloody intelligence, Alfred was not by any measure what anyone would imagine if they had to think up a blueprint for a parent. He had a sneaking suspicion that despite the old master’s Rules (rest his poor soul), Alfred was quite roundly Fucking This All Up, and it was not a comfortable thought to entertain. 

Thankfully, Gordon arrived for dinner before Alfred started feeling far too maudlin, and he sat down at one of the settings when Alfred pointedly pulled out a chair. “Uh. Aren’t you joining us for dinner?” Gordon asked.

“What an interesting proposition, sir,” Alfred drawled, amused all over again when Gordon blushed, his ears reddening. “Would sir be partial to some wine? The cellars stock a few very good vintages.” 

“Um, water will be fine, thank you.” Gordon said quickly. As Alfred inclined his head, turning away to fetch the first course, the detective could be heard saying, “Is that a Monet in my, er, in the guest room? A real Monet?”

It was all Alfred could do not to laugh, even as Bruce said, sounding puzzled, “All the paintings in this house are genuine, as far as the experts can ascertain. Why do you ask?” 

Army boys. 

The soup at least was well-received, or perhaps Gordon had built up an appetite from work, and thankfully, some of it seemed to have rubbed off on Bruce. When Alfred cleared the bowls, it looked like Bruce had made a genuine attempt to finish his portion, though he hadn’t attacked it with bread the way Gordon had. 

It looked like the roast was the real winner though, the way Gordon’s eyes went large and round when Alfred arranged the servings of potatoes, carrots, pudding and fennel salad within reach and started to carve the duck. “Wow. My compliments to the chef.”

“Why thank you sir,” Alfred said dryly, and Gordon blinked at him. 

“ _You’re_ the chef? Whoah. Is there anything that you can’t do?” 

“I am pleased to advise that I have yet to discover the outer limits of my limitations,” Alfred noted blandly, though he was admittedly rather gratified by Jim’s surprise.

“He’s not very good with horses,” Bruce confided, as Alfred served him a thigh portion with a generous ladleful of gravy. Alfred had, in the course of his service to the Waynes, discovered that some given concept of ‘fine dining’ for the very posh seemed to involve serving roasts with just an artistic arc of gravy, and had never quite understood the point of it.

“Unfortunately we are all mortal, young master,” Alfred conceded, serving up a side of the breast for Gordon as well as a thigh, and even as he stood by to assist with second helpings, it was a pleasure to watch someone _finally_ wolfing down his food. 

The old master had treated food as a necessary fuel, eating only when required and the minimum necessary, and the lady had been partial to picking at salads, for ‘health reasons’. Bruce had taken after his father, a habit grown worse after his bereavement, and Alfred supposed that it was nice to be appreciated. 

“How has your day been, Detective?” Bruce asked, as Gordon helped himself to a quarter of the potatoes and inhaled those as well.

“Um. You should probably just call me ‘Jim’,” Gordon corrected. “Seeing as I’m living off you right now.” 

Bruce scrunched up his face a little. “Jim,” He conceded uncomfortably, if with a quick glance at Alfred as though for reassurance. Alfred offered him merely a blank look in response. As far as he was concerned, status wise, the young master was far enough above his guest that titles weren’t exactly necessary. 

“The usual,” Gordon sighed. “There’s always work in my department. And the Captain likes to push the really odd cases on Harvey and I, seeing as ‘we’ve been so successful so far’.”

“There was nothing particularly sensational in the papers today.”

“Not yet, maybe,” Gordon muttered. “But it’s not really a topic for dinner. This is _really_ good,” he added, as Alfred carved him another helping from the duck.

“You’re very welcome, sir,” Alfred noted. Bruce was still picking at the thigh, more interested in Gordon’s work than his dinner, Alfred didn’t wonder. 

“I mean, when did you learn how to do this? I pegged you for a retired vet.” 

“Alfred used to be in the Royal Marines,” Bruce offered, cutting himself a tiny sliver of meat as though to show willing. “He learned lots of stuff,” Bruce added vaguely, having never, like his poor late mother, been particularly interested in the details of Alfred’s past, as long as the house and its grounds were tidy and tea was served on time. 

“Quite so,” Alfred agreed, cutting off Gordon’s next question. 

Dessert was a bit of a revelation. Gordon made a strangled moaning sound in his first mouthful of the parfait, that in Alfred’s opinion was entirely inappropriate for a dinner setting. Or any setting outside of a bedroom. His libido, unfortunately, didn’t agree, and Alfred beat a tactical retreat to the kitchen, thankful that neither the young master nor Gordon had seen him flush. 

God. As Alfred soaped down the dishes, he could quite clearly imagine Gordon making _that_ sound, pressed into fresh sheets, wide-eyed and in disarray-

“You’re a bloody idiot, that’s what you are,” Alfred muttered to himself, checking the clock. It probably wouldn’t be long before he had to clear the table. 

When he returned to the dining room, Alfred sourly noted that Bruce had patiently managed to winkle out the details of Jim’s latest case: something about a Jack the Ripper imitator, except with seemingly random people instead of prostitutes. Probably. 

“We’re hoping that it’s just a very sick art exhibit. With actors and no murders,” Jim admitted. “The perp _wanted_ us to find that warehouse, that’s for sure. Harvey thinks he’s the one who tipped off the police.”

“A warehouse set up like an art gallery, with framed photographs of the ‘murder’ victims,” Bruce mused. “You can’t tell if the photographs were staged with actors?”

“Forensics doesn’t think so. But I hope they were. Could be some sort of publicity stunt. Harvey thinks so. The ‘artist’ set up the title of his ‘exhibit’ in projected text on the floor. Calls the whole setup ‘The Killing Joke’.” 

“It does sound like some sort of contemporary art installation,” Bruce said doubtfully. “Some aspects of modern art thrive on shock value.” 

“Yeah. Harvey and I have been doing some research all afternoon. An exhibit with ‘dead people’ photos isn’t even near as crazy as what some people have gotten up to. If not for Forensics’ opinion, we’d have just shoved it into the wonk pile.”

“You don’t seem convinced that it’s a prank,” Bruce said, with his unnerving perceptiveness, and Gordon sighed.

“No. Those pictures? My God. They made my skin crawl. And I thought that I’d seen everything.”

Thankfully, despite Bruce’s persistence, Gordon refused to volunteer any more grisly details, allowing Alfred to cut in with, “Would sir be retiring for the night?”

“I guess. I’ve had a long day.” Gordon looked a little embarrassed, as though he was recalling his morning. “Uh. What do you get up to at night, Bruce?”

“I read.” Bruce said, then to Alfred’s surprise, he added, a little shyly, “Sometimes I watch the Gray Ghost.”

Alfred probably hadn’t hidden his expression quickly enough. Gordon glanced briefly at him, then added, very kindly, “Gray Ghost? What’s that?” 

It was a poor bit of acting, but Bruce was too excited by it to notice. “You’ve never _seen_ it before?” Bruce asked, incredulous. “We have to watch the first episode together then! That is,” Bruce added quickly, “If you’re not too tired.”

“‘Course not,” Gordon assured him, and Alfred set them up in the Lumière Room, with its large projector and couch, along with coffee for Gordon, milk for Bruce and a plate of almond cookies that Alfred had made two days ago in the hopes of encouraging Bruce to take tea again. 

After two episodes of the Gray Ghost’s early adventures, Bruce was nodding off, and he sleepily allowed Alfred to carry him to his bedroom, with mumbled apologies to Gordon. After ensuring that the young master had cleaned up and gotten tucked in, Alfred returned to the Lumière Room, where Gordon looked up guiltily from where he was finishing the last cookie on the plate. 

Pretending not to notice, Alfred started to clear the cups and plate, but Gordon stubbornly refused to relinquish cup and saucer, seemingly bent on following Alfred to the kitchen instead. “Have you been with the family long?” Gordon asked, when Alfred gave it up as a bad job and let him tag along. 

“Since before the young master was born.” 

“You’ve… managed everything for them since?”

“Over time, yes.”

“The manor _and_ the grounds? It’s huge!” 

“It does keep one occupied. Does sir require anything else?” Alfred asked pointedly, but it seemed that cookies and coffee had managed to make Gordon immune to sarcasm. 

“Kind of a dramatic career change from being in the Marines, isn’t it?”

“Not particularly. _Per Mare, Per Terram_ ,” Alfred quoted the Royal Marines’ motto absently.

“‘By Sea, By Land’,” Gordon murmured, a little to Alfred’s surprise. “I’m guessing you were a sergeant of some sort.” 

“Your powers of observation astound me.”

“No, really,” Gordon protested, even as he set down cup and saucer beside the stack of dirty dishes. “I bet you were a damned good one too. Can I help you with that?”

Alfred affected a blank look. “With what, sir?”

Annoyingly enough, Gordon persevered. “The dishes.”

“Perhaps sir would prefer to rest,” Alfred ventured, trying not to sound too frosty, but Gordon grimaced all the same and started to retreat, palms up.

“All right. But if I can help with anything, let me know. Least that I can do.” 

“On the contrary,” Alfred said, more gently, remembering how Bruce had at least had most of the soup, half of his duck and all of the parfait, as well as milk and cookies, “You _have_ already been a great help. Would you like a wake up call?”

“No, ah, I’ll manage. And you really don’t have to make me breakfast.”

“Very good, sir,” Alfred drawled, watching as Gordon flushed a little and fled. 

Well. Having a guest _was_ rather more interesting than Alfred remembered after all.

2.0.

Perhaps as some sort of hidden rebuke of Jim’s late night attempts to cross ‘class’ boundaries, breakfast was obsequiously elaborate, with baked eggs, what tasted like fresh-made bread (did Alfred just not need to sleep?), yogurt, and even a selection of small pastries. Alfred’s only response to Jim’s awkward thanks had been a mild, “Would that be all, sir?” and this time round, Jim relinquished the dishes without a struggle.

More so than Bruce, the Waynes’ retainer was turning out to be a puzzle, and Jim disliked mysteries. Alfred’s military background was clear from his poise, and Jim had pegged him as a non-com because of his accent. How had a non-com risen to become the sole retainer of one of the richest families in the US? The _legal guardian_ of the heir to the Wayne empire, at that.

He was still thinking that over when he edged his borrowed precinct car out of the garage and onto the driveway, at which point Jim noticed belatedly that the car had been dusted and scrubbed clean. 

Alfred _definitely_ didn’t require sleep.

Harvey noticed as well, when Jim picked him up from the precinct to chase their latest lead. “Huh. You really _are_ living it up with the Wayne kid.”

“He insisted,” Jim said defensively. “And I’m looking for a place. Elsewhere. This is only temporary.”

Harvey grunted, and smirked. “Well, if I was you, I would stay there as _long_ as possible. You get both room and board, don’t you?” 

“I wouldn’t presume.” 

“Well, you should,” Harvey shrugged. “‘Sides. You probably need the company right now.”

Jim stared at his partner warily, wondering if that was some sort of jab, but Harvey was scratching at his chin as he stared out of the newly polished window. “No leads from Fish?” Jim asked, in a conciliatory tone.

“Nope. Not her territory, either. I _hope_ this is just some bastard’s idea of a bad joke. I’ll make him eat his fucking _photographs_.”

Jim was barely listening, still trying to absently work out exactly _how_ Alfred had managed to clear the dishes, wash the car and make breakfast while still squeezing in some sleep, and it was only after they stopped at another light that he realized Harvey was trying to get his attention.

“Sorry. I was thinking,” Jim said sheepishly.

Harvey glowered at him for a moment, then his bristly face seemed to attempt an expression of sympathy. It was more of a grimace than anything, but it showed willing. “Hey kid,” Harvey said gruffly, “Look. I probably should’ve said. But this thing with your missus? You’re probably going to have to get used to it happening. It’s not just Gotham PD. It’s cops the world over. The hours and the stress, you know?”

Relieved that Harvey had jumped to the wrong conclusion, Jim nodded. “Barbara _wanted_ me to be a cop,” he offered quietly. “She said it would be better than being a soldier.” 

“Hah! That shows you something about women, doesn’t it? They’re _never_ content.” 

“It was my fault.” Jim said firmly.

“Maybe. You broke up over keeping secrets, didn’t you?” At Jim’s blink, Harvey said gruffly, “You were moaning about it when you were dead drunk. Going on about how your missus didn’t want to have secrets between you both when she herself had her secrets. You were like a broken fucking record. Not that I minded,” Harvey added hastily, when Jim grimaced. “Cops got to look out for each other on this kinda thing.”

“That’s all I said?”

“Well yeah. You didn’t say shit else about her. And I tried to ask. Like I said, you just have to let it all out,” Harvey said blithely. 

Jim tried to study his partner without it being too obvious, but it looked like Harvey _was_ telling the truth. And besides, it wasn’t as though Harvey seemed to be the sort to keep a secret: not from Jim, in any case. Jim was, after all, apparently ‘part of the program’. If Jim had spilled anything about Oswald’s current state of non-death, Harvey wouldn’t have let it slide.

Still, Jim could sense Harvey’s burning curiosity from where he sat, and knew he’d have to deflect it now or keep worrying about it. “Before me. Barbara said. She had a lover. Another woman.”

Harvey made a strangled guffaw, then swallowed it quickly. “Huh.”

“Yeah,” Jim said, as belligerently as he could.

“Your Barbara? Well, I’ll fucking be.”

“She’s not ‘my’ anything anymore, remember?”

“Maybe I see now why you got as drunk as you did,” Harvey said comfortingly, and Jim tried not to make it look too obvious how he was relaxing. As much as Harvey _was_ a bad cop, he still had an old cop’s instincts, and any evasion had to be salted with a little truth. “Just take it easy, okay? Captain understands, too. It always hurts more the first time.”

“I tried to talk to Barbara. Yesterday. When I went to get my things.”

“She still mad?”

“Yeah.” 

“Are _you_ mad?” 

“Actually?” Jim thought this over, then he said, a little wryly, “Not really. I would have married her,” he added defensively, when Harvey snorted. “But this city? It changes things.” 

Somewhere along the line, he’d picked up a whole range of other priorities, all on short notice. Oswald had just been the tip of the iceberg, Jim had guessed. Barbara couldn’t handle _everything_ about Jim’s new life, not just the possible murder of a man. Things were never going to last, and he had sensed the storm coming even before the argument. 

“Yeah. It does. Chin up, kid,” Harvey said gruffly. “At least you landed on your feet. Now let’s go catch us another crazy fucker.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This hilarious [io9 article] sums up everything that was wrong with s1e4. Haha! I still don’t know why I love the show so much. Must be Sean Pertwee's accent.

III.

The public library was eminently indefensible, Alfred decided sourly, but part of the Rules was that the young master’s word was law unless there was fair reason for Alfred to exercise his veto, and unfortunately, Alfred had been strongly impressed with what ‘fair’ meant where the Waynes were concerned.

“You’re drawing attention,” Bruce murmured, from where he was carefully studying the new Arkham plans, freshly made available for public view by NHA, the architectural firm that had won the Falcone contract. 

“ _I’m_ the one drawing attention, am I?” Alfred muttered. 

They were in the gigantic Reading Room, a cathedral-like chamber lined with vast fingers of shelves, hemming in rows of gorgeous oak reading desks, a gift to the library from Bruce’s grandfather. The library staff had been shocked when Bruce had walked right up to the loan desk and requested a copy of the plans under his real name, and Alfred didn’t doubt that the news had probably done the rounds by now. 

“Relax, Alfred. This isn’t a war zone.” 

“Might be, once the news hounds get here. I could have gotten a copy of the bloody thing for you to view at home,” Alfred added reproachfully.

“Don’t you think that it’s important for a Wayne to show interest in the project, when the family name’s being used on national television as some sort of seal of approval?”

“I think it’s probably a wee bit too early to go poking the hornet’s nest, that’s what _I_ think,” Alfred muttered, but Bruce ignored him, scribbling down notes on a little notebook. 

To think that he’d actually been somewhat enthusiastic when the young master had first expressed a wish to Go Downtown. Bloody hell. Alfred had just thought that perhaps Bruce would want to make a round of a sweetshop and some bookshops before heading back home. A good sign that the kid had started to come out of his shell, so Alfred had believed. He should have known.

“I need a new tutor,” Bruce continued, ignoring Alfred. “The man who drew up my parents’ original plans.”

“Going into the architectural business now, are we?”

“Property development _is_ a key part of Wayne Enterprises.” 

“Right then. I’ll make the calls,” Alfred muttered. “We done here? We can get a copy made. Surely you’ve been out long enough for bloody _appearances_.”

“Not yet,” Bruce said calmly, and kept making notes. 

It was perhaps half an hour in when there was a sudden hubbub at the entryway to the Reading Room that made Alfred tense up by habit, nearly reaching for the service piece under his coat. It was the Mayor, trailing hangers-on and, bloody hellfire, the goddamned _press_ , bustling in and making a beeline for Bruce’s table.

“Mister Wayne,” the Mayor gushed, extending one pudgy hand to shake. “I was a close friend of your parents. So damned sorry about their loss. So sorry. I was gutted, I tell you. Gutted.”

“Mayor James,” Bruce said, calm and collected as ever, as he shook the Mayor’s hand. “Yes. My father mentioned you often,” he added, in a not-quite-lie. Thomas Wayne had never been particularly fond of the Mayor, and was quite given to saying so in the privacy of the manor.

“Please, call me Aubrey.” The Mayor grinned, mugging for the cameras, though Bruce remained unsmiling. “Reading up on your parents’ legacy? That’s very good of you, Mister Wayne, very good of you. May I call you Bruce?”

“I thought I should update myself on it,” Bruce noted mildly. “The Arkham project was of great personal significance to my mother. I would hope that it would align with the spirit of her intentions. She always said that Arkham was meant to be a symbol of hope in Gotham. By showing that even the most disadvantaged among us could be helped.” 

“Of course, of course,” the Mayor said, though there was something a little strained about his smile now. “It will be exactly that. _Exactly_ that.” 

“Indeed. I will be keeping a close eye on the project, Mayor. Thank you for taking the trouble to come by.”

“No, no. Think nothing of it. I’m honoured to be a friend of your family. This is my card,” the Mayor pushed a white slip of card into Bruce’s hands. “Please don’t hesitate to give me a call whenever you have questions about the project.”

“I will,” Bruce said quietly. “Alfred, could I have a copy of this made? And a map of the proposed surrounding developments as well.”

“The surrounds?” The Mayor repeated a little nervously, even as the cameras kept flashing away, strobe lights in the stately, controlled environment of the Reading Room.

“Well yes,” Bruce noted, as though with mild surprise. “The surrounding lands were previously acquired in a joint venture between Wayne Enterprises and the City of Gotham, were they not? To be held in trust for the Arkham Project.”

“And parcelled out as befit the City.” 

“Quite so,” Bruce said, and managed one of his thin, unsettling smiles. “Quite so.” 

When they were finally in the safety of the Bentley, pulling out into traffic, Alfred growled, “Mind telling me what that was all about?” 

“Poking the hornet’s nest, as you said.” Bruce stared out into traffic, slouched in the back passenger seat. When Alfred let out an irritated breath, Bruce added, “It’s a good time for it.”

“Oh it is, is it?”

“The project’s still in the planning stages. Once it has developmental approval across the board, it’ll be more difficult to influence.”

Alfred scowled at the rearview mirror. “Remember what Detective Gordon said? The truce between Falcone and Maroni over the Arkham deal prevented a street _war_. You stir things up, it might spill up again. You want that to happen?”

“I don’t believe that the city’s daily operations should be decided based on whether or not it would ‘stir things up’ between two _criminal_ organisations. Rather,” Bruce added firmly, “Projects like Arkham should be designed _for_ the _people_. Not for the benefit of criminals.”

“You sound just like your mother,” Alfred muttered, unfortunately still loudly enough for Bruce to hear - the kid stiffened. “Rest her soul,” Alfred added quickly. 

“I’ve been thinking about motive,” Bruce continued then, frowning out of the window. “About who would benefit most from my parents’ murder.”

“Best to leave that to police work,” Alfred pointed out. “Detective Gordon mentioned that he had a lead.”

“This might shake out a few more.” 

“Or shake down everything over all of us,” Alfred countered. “You want to look at motive? Know who benefits the most out of them being out of the picture? You and me.” Bruce flinched, and instantly, Alfred felt a bubble of guilt well up inside him. Forcing his tone to grow gentler, Alfred added, “So I think maybe you should pick your own battles for now. You’ve got the time. And God knows, you’ve got all the goddamned money in the world that you’d ever need.” 

“You’re saying that I should just sit tight and grow up?” Bruce asked flatly. “Let the real murderer get away with it?”

“I think you should leave it to the professionals,” Alfred retorted, and Bruce looked for a moment as though he was about to argue, but ended up biting out a sigh instead. 

“Do you think it’ll happen? That Jim will find the murderer, that is. What then? Everyone’s already pegged Pepper as the killer.”

“You think a man like him would let it slide, do you?” Alfred asked dryly. “Rather than shout it from the mountaintops, hell take the consequences?”

“I like him,” Bruce said, his tone pointed. “You do too.”

“That’s news to me.”

“You only make yorkshire pudding for people you like,” Bruce said, and grinned at Alfred’s scowl in the rearview window. 

Bloody hell. The kid was right.

3.0.

“What’s that boy getting at?” Harvey muttered, as they passed by the third telly of the day, blaring news of the Mayor’s rather awkward meeting with Bruce Wayne. This set was tucked away above a bar counter, where their meeting with Harvey’s latest informant had failed to turn up anything of interest whatsoever.

“He’s just interested in his parents’ work,” Jim said, trying to sound dismissive. What the hell _was_ Bruce trying to do? He was too young to get involved in the pissing contest between Falcone and Maroni. Why didn’t Alfred stop him?

“Well,” Harvey grunted, “‘Long as that’s all he’s interested in. Since you’re living with him now,” Harvey added, “Maybe you should try to get him interested in _safer_ shit. Buy him a train set or something.”

“Doesn’t Wayne Enterprises _own_ the Gotham subway system?”

“… True. Well fuck,” Harvey shook his head slowly. “That boy is going to grow up to be one fucked up little bastard.”

“The murder of his parents definitely didn’t help,” Jim muttered, but Harvey had already stamped out of the bar, scowling into the graying light of the day. 

“I’m going to try talking to Fish again,” Harvey said finally. “Leastways, she can’t try to run that ‘it’s just an artsy photographer’ spiel on me, not when we’ve got a survivor.” 

Jim nodded slowly. A survivor had been found late morning, screaming and bleeding out in an empty oil can a couple of blocks away from the Arkham construction site. Like the vics in the photographs, his limbs had been amputated at the joints. Unlike the vics, he hadn’t also been ‘artistically’ mutilated. Nor had his mouth been drawn up in that horrific rictus of a grin.

“Need me to drop you off?”

“Naw. We’re not too far and you being around puts her in a weird mood. I’ll walk. You can pick me up when I’m done. Get some coffee or something. Docs are going to give us an opinion on whether the survivor is still good to talk in a bit, aren’t they? Got to be ready for that.” 

Jim shuddered. He didn’t think that there was a fair chance of that. “Yeah. Uh. I’ll pick you up in an hour?”

“Sure.” 

Jim watched Harvey go, then walked around the block to where they’d left the car, idling in an alley. He was about to unlock it, but the miaow of a cat made him look up sharply to a fire escape. Sitting on the narrow iron steps, Selina waved at him, still wrapped up in the same coat and jeans, pouring milk for a couple of strays into a takeaway foil tin.

“You shouldn’t do that, you know,” Jim said, blinking.

“Do what?”

“Feed cats milk. My… er, my ex told me about it. Her mom’s a veterinarian. Adult cats can’t process cow’s milk. They get sick.” 

Selina narrowed her eyes at him, openly suspicious. “But cats drink milk in cartoons. Didn’t you see the Aristocats?”

“Yeah. Don’t ever get her mom started on those cartoons. Look,” Jim added kindly, when Selina wavered. “You want to feed them? Let’s head across the street to that grocer. I’ll buy you a bag of feed. Okay? I’m sorry I didn’t trust you before. Let me make it up to you.” 

There was a long silence, then Selina picked up the tray and emptied it off the side of the fire escape, scowling as the cats let out soft yowls of disappointment. She took a swig of the bottle of milk, then capped it off and tucked it into her jacket, swinging off the fire escape and landing neatly on the asphalt. 

“Want some lunch as well?” Jim offered.

Selina shot him a wary look. “I’m good.” 

“Well, don’t mind me when I’m eating, then.” 

In the end, as he thought she would, Selina caved, especially when she picked the most expensive bag of cat kibble off the shelf and Jim paid for it without complaint. They grabbed hotdogs off a street vendor and poured out kibble for the cats in the alley, eating while leaning against Jim’s car. 

“So,” Selina said, her tone almost conciliatory. “What else isn’t good for cats? Do you know? Just in case I make another mistake.”

“I’m not so sure,” Jim confessed, not really being a cat person himself. “But I can ask around and find out. Or you could look it up in the public library.”

Selina scowled. “I can’t read.”

“Schools-“

“Got no need for those. I’m learning everything I need out here.” 

“Only if being ‘out here’ is what you want for the rest of your life,” Jim pointed out, as evenly as he could, and Selina ducked her curly head, scowling again, though she kept munching on her hotdog. “Truce?”

“What truce?”

“I said I was sorry about the last time. Are we even?”

“We’re even.” Selina said, with a faint smirk. “You’re living with the boy now, aren’t you?”

“You really shouldn’t keep spying on people like that.”

“What’s it like? In that big old house? I’m just curious,” Selina added defensively, when Jim arched an eyebrow. “I wasn’t going to go stealing shit in there, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“It’s quite interesting. You should come by,” Jim added, wondering if he was perhaps presuming far too much on Bruce by saying so. “Talk to ‘the boy’. His name is Bruce, by the way.” 

“What for? Rich kids. They’re all the same. They don’t give a damn about the rest of us.”

“Not this one.”

Selina rolled her eyes at him. “Oh yeah? How many rich kids do you know?” 

She had him there. “Don’t you think that maybe he might want to learn firsthand about the person who killed his parents?”

“You think?”

“Well. I could introduce the two of you. Then you can get a look inside that big old house.” Jim wasn’t quite sure where he was going with this. Especially since he hadn’t quite discussed his plans with Bruce _or_ Alfred. 

_Burning, and cutting_. 

“I’ll think about it,” Selina said loftily.

“So why did you come looking for me?” 

“‘Cos I thought you might wanna know. Remember those people who were grabbing the homeless off the streets?”

“We stopped them.”

“Only for now. People are disappearing again. Eight people ‘bout three days back. Another eight last night.” 

Eight people. With a sinking feeling in his heart, Jim asked, “The first eight who disappeared. Was it five women and three men? Two of the men were Asian?”

“Yup. Why? You guys found them already?” Selina looked grudgingly impressed. “That’s pretty quick.”

“Tell me about those who disappeared. All of them.”

Selina hesitated for a moment but obeyed, watching as Jim took notes, and it didn’t take long for Jim’s suspicions to be confirmed: the victims _were_ the homeless. Again.

“They’re dead, aren’t they?” Selina asked finally, when he was done. “Could see it in your face.”

“We’ll catch the killer.”

“Yeah. You’re not so bad a cop.” Selina said, and grinned at him, scrunching up her hotdog foil. “Thanks for lunch.” 

“I still need info about the Wayne killer,” Jim reminded her firmly. “You said you saw his face-“ 

“Wasn’t anyone I recognised.” Selina shrugged. “But I’ve been looking around.”

“ _You’ve_ been… that’s too dangerous! What _for_?”

“Got my reasons,” Selina said evasively. “Talk to you later, Detective.” 

“Selina wait-“ Jim began, but Selina had already darted off down the alley, remainder of the feed bag and all, and Jim sighed, crushing the impulse to follow her. At least he had something on his current case. Even if it wasn’t much of a lead. 

And as he had thought, once the Captain found out that the vics were ‘only’ the homeless, the pressure eased off. The vic in the hospital hadn’t woken up, and with no further leads, Jim decided to head back to the manor early. He had to talk to Bruce about Selina. 

But first, he had to talk to _Alfred_. 

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Alfred was in the kitchen, a black apron over his usual vest and sleeved shirt, pinging between an array of bubbling pots and the oven, and he glowered pointedly at Jim when Jim stepped in. A tentative “Can I help with anything?” only worsened Alfred’s frown, and this was the only place in the manor, Jim realized, where he truly felt that he was trespassing. The kitchen was Alfred’s sole territory, and the ex-Marine was obviously possessive. 

“Something you need, sir?” Alfred asked, his tone wintry, and Jim tried not to wince.

“Um. Could I talk to you for a minute?” 

Alfred eyed the pots, then he wiped down his hands, and beckoned. Jim followed Alfred out of the kitchens, into what looked like a small herb and vegetable garden, and Alfred folded his hands behind his back, arching an eyebrow. 

“Dinner smells really good, by the way,” Jim wondered whether there was a point opening with a compliment.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Could you please not call me ‘sir’?”

“Very good, sir.” 

This wasn’t getting off to a good start. “Ah, maybe if there’s a better time-“

“No better time than the present.” 

“… all right,” Jim said slowly. “I would like Bruce to meet someone. I’ll like to okay it with you first. Since you’re his guardian.”

“And?”

“Uh, and what?”

“And who is this special person,” Alfred said, with studied patience, “Who deserves a moment of Master Bruce’s time, may I ask?”

“Oh. Yes. Ah. She’s a witness. To the murder. That night.” 

“And you think it’s fitting, d’you think, to have Master Bruce’s attention fixated on his parents’ murder?”

“Okay. I’m sorry I asked.” Jim deflated. “You’re right. It isn’t appropriate.”

“I wasn’t aware that there was a witness.”

“Nor was I. Until recently. She’s a street urchin, about Bruce’s age. She was hiding up on the fire escape when it happened. Said that she saw the killer’s face.” 

Alfred made a low, humming sound. “Skinny girl, big hair? Dark coat? Aviator goggles?”

“You know her?” Jim blinked. 

“I’ve observed her hanging around the manor’s perimeter. But we always get the occasional curious passer-by.” Alfred said thoughtfully. “Well then. Thank you for the information, Detective. Dinner will be at eight.” 

“Right. Sorry.” Jim started to turn, but Alfred stepped up sharply, and he froze, but all Alfred did was straighten his collar, his hands quick and deft, close enough that Jim could _smell_ him, some sort of spicy aftershave under the cooking scents, and his mouth watered a little.

“All fixed,” Alfred said absently, and circled around him, heading back into the kitchen, oblivious to how Jim’s mouth opened and closed like a fish.

Damn. It had been a hell of a long time since the last that Jim had even looked sideways at another man, and there was nothing remotely appropriate about this one. What the hell was _wrong_ with him? Jim rubbed a hand over his face. It had to be the combined stress of work and his personal problems. It had to be.


	4. Chapter 4

IV.

Alfred waited until Bruce was absorbed with his ‘homework’ from his latest ‘tutor’, the project lead of what had once been Martha Wayne’s asylum brainchild, and slipped to the security room. Despite the extensive background check Alfred had arranged to be run on the old Mister Grimes, Alfred had decided to be safe rather than sorry, and had waited quietly in the background while the lesson had been run, ostensibly to be available on hand for a coffee refill where required.

Now that Mister Grimes had gone, however, and Bruce seemed absorbed with the reams of proposal drafts, Alfred studied the monitors until he picked up the tell-tale movements near the gate that indicated that the Wayne manor’s sometime visitor was back, almost like clockwork. 

Quietly, Alfred tucked his service piece into his coat - just in case - and headed for the cellar. There was a little-known second exit that had been built into the cellar during Bruce’s great-grandfather’s time, allowing for a shortcut to the maze without having to walk overland, and Alfred hurried through the dark corridor, using a torch to light his way. 

From the maze, it was an easy enough task to take the gamekeeper’s exit out of the wall into the woods - disabling then re-enabling his own security measures: and Alfred circled through the trees, watching his step, pushing his mind into the state of settled calm that he had learned a long time ago. 

Per Mare, Per Terram.

Counting time in his mind, Alfred guessed that the manor’s visitor would be about to leave her usual perch by the time he got downwind of her, and yes. There she was. Up and snug on the bloody ivy, like a goddamned cat.

Alfred debated tactical approaches, then decided that in this case, there was probably something about doing it head on. Stepping quietly out from the tree line, he drawled, “Something interesting over the wall?”

The girl flinched violently and nearly fell off her perch, whirling around, knees bent to spring off and make a run for it. Up close, the impression that Alfred got of a cat was reinforced: the girl moved with a fluid grace, even travel-worn as she was with filthy shoes, and over her narrow nose, her eyes were sharp and feral. 

Definitely a street urchin. “How about you sit up there,” Alfred added, “And I stay right here, and we have a bit of a chat. I’ll give you ten bucks at the end of it.”

The girl hesitated, then she frowned at him. “You’re with the boy, aren’t you? The master of the house. A bodyguard?”

“His bloody guardian, actually. Well?”

“Fifty bucks.” 

“You’ve got some cheek, lass,” Alfred growled. “Twenty.”

“Thirty.” 

“Fine. But whatever you’ve got to say for yourself, it better be worth thirty quid. You got a name?”

“Cat,” the girl said, scowling a little. 

“What’re you doing hanging about the manor, eh?”

“Just keeping an eye out.” 

“You a thief then?” 

“I wasn’t thinking of _stealing_ anything.” 

“Right then,” Alfred said blandly. “Because y’know, money like the young master has, for the most part, it attracts thieves. Small ones that come in the night and try t’make off with some jewellery, or big ones that come through the main door and pretend to be his friend.” 

“I’m not like that,” Cat growled, then she hesitated. “If you’re his guardian. Can you make a deal? On the boy’s behalf?” 

“Maybe. Depends on the deal.” Alfred drawled. “This about that story you sold that nice Detective ‘bout how you know who the killer of the Waynes is?”

“It’s not a story. It’s _true_.”

“Yeah? And you want to know how many crank calls I’ve gotten since their deaths, claiming to know the identity of the killer? Asking for money?” 

“Ask Detective Gordon,” Cat retorted, not in the least intimidated, and Alfred had to hide a grin. This girl was one sharp little cookie. “ _He’s_ convinced.” 

“Could be I’m a wee bit doubtful, seeing as you didn’t come forward to the police, and you’re making Detective Gordon run in circles.” 

“Could be he isn’t the one who has what I want,” Cat shot back. 

“Money?”

“Power. Influence. I don’t want your money,” Cat added, when Alfred opened his mouth. “I was going to cut a deal.”

“‘Was’?”

“I was going to _find_ the killer first. I’ve been asking around. Once I found out who he was, or had a good idea, I was going to come over here and make a deal. Information for information, right?”

“What did you want to trade?” Alfred asked, inserting skepticism in his tone, “If it ain’t money?”

Cat stiffened, her hand darting into her pocket for a moment, then she seemed to reluctantly come to a decision, exhaling. “I want you to hire a private detective. To find my mother. The police don’t care about her,” Cat added sharply, when Alfred blinked, surprised by this development. “They think she’s _dead_. Well, she fucking _isn’t_.” 

“Language, young lady,” Alfred said absently, thinking this over. 

If Cat had asked for money, he would have driven her off, Gordon or no Gordon. If she had asked for an unnamed favour, Alfred would have considered that as well. But this? Alfred studied Cat, the tension in her shoulders, the hard set to her jaw. There was desperation there, and a wild hope. Determination. He believed her. Trying to find her mother was clearly what Cat was living for.

“Why’ve you been spying on the manor, eh?” Alfred asked finally. 

Cat stiffened. “I wasn’t _spying_. I was just… waiting. Watching a possible future investment,” she added tartly, when Alfred arched his eyebrows again. 

“Just watching, hmm?”

“I heard somewhere that most victims know their killers. Maybe that’s why he had to go masked at the very end, right? Maybe that’s why he didn’t kill the boy. I was watching to see if he’d come and visit. You only seem to admit visitors during fixed times. But I can’t be here all the time,” Cat added defensively. “Got to feed myself. Can’t sleep out here neither. And 'sides, I've been looking elsewhere too. Just in case.”

Alfred went cold. The girl _did_ have a point. A small one, admittedly, but it was there. Alfred _had_ been wondering why Bruce had been left alive. Some sudden burst on conscience on the part of a contract killer? Or something else? He hadn’t been certain. And it hadn’t been something that the police had even considered. 

What if it _was_ someone that knew the Waynes? Someone whom Alfred might admit into the manor without a second thought? 

“Maybe you can be here all the time,” Alfred said finally, slowly. “You could warn me ahead of time. If I let in anyone… familiar.” 

Cat frowned at him, clearly expecting a trap. “Yeah? Just stay in that house and watch your gate? Nothing else?”

“If you’re worried about propriety,” Alfred noted, “Detective Gordon is also a guest in the house at present.” 

That did sway her a little: Cat nibbled at her lower lip. “What about my favour?”

“I’ll arrange for an investigator immediately. He’ll report directly to you, if you like. Your mum’s none of my bloody business after all. Look, girl,” Alfred added, when Cat drew herself up, “It’s just an offer. You want to live elsewhere and check in on us now and then, and maybe, just maybe, the young master might still be alive or not… that’s up to you.”

Cat wavered again at that. “I don’t want to be stuck in that big old house all the time.”

“You can come and go whenever you want,” Alfred shrugged. “Nobody just calls in on us without ringing ahead. I’ll let you know whenever there’s going to be an appointment. Rest of the time is your own.” 

Cat leaned back against the gate, nibbling on her lower lip again. “You’ll arrange for an investigator right now?”

“Yeah.” 

“And I call the shots?”

“Yeah. You don’t like him, we can find another one. Whatever you want.”

“Even if I don’t move in?”

“Sure. No skin off me nose.”

“What about finding the killer? If he doesn't come by the house?”

“I think we can leave Detective Gordon to do that, eh? Or if you still want to look on your own dime, knock yourself out.” Alfred had a feeling that Cat would only sneer at protestations that it was too dangerous. She knew better than he did how dangerous her path was. After all, she was a young girl who lived on the streets, in a city full of predators. 

“I get a room in the house?”

“And food, if you want to try my cooking.”

“… What if the investigator finds my mum before we find the killer?”

“I don’t know, Cat,” Alfred said evenly, “What happens then?”

“I’ll still help out,” Cat decided, and hunched her shoulders a little. “Promise. I never seen someone murder two people in front of their kid before,” she added harshly, when Alfred arched an eyebrow. “It wasn’t right. I got a mum too. I want the killer to get caught.” 

“All right.” 

“It’s a deal, then,” Cat said, with a sharp grin. “But I still want my thirty bucks.” 

“Young lady,” Alfred said, very dryly, even as he fished out his wallet, “I think we’re going to get along _just_ fine.”

4.0.

Jim had thought himself inured to surprise after his very long day, but when he turned a corner into the Blue Drawing Room and found Bruce, Selina and Alfred playing Monopoly on the plush carpet, he could only stare.

It was Alfred who looked up first, sharp and alert, getting to his feet. “Has sir had dinner?” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Jim said, but Alfred merely shot him a pointed look for a moment before glancing back at the children. 

“He could take your place while you fix something up, Alfred,” Bruce suggested, without even looking up from his study of the board. “Do you know how to play Monopoly, Detective?” 

“Sort of?” Jim hazarded, but Alfred nodded and stepped past him to the door, leaving him with no option but to sit down where Alfred had been. A quick look at the board indicated that the game was in its early stages, with no one really ahead, although Selina had a couple of the stations, Bruce a collection of the red and yellow properties, and Alfred seemed to have a fair scattering.

The board was also like no Monopoly board Jim had ever played on: it was painted on a slab of wood, with the text and artwork engraved in silver, the cards embossed and foiled, and the pieces in play - a top hat (Alfred’s), a battleship (Selina’s) and a cannon (Bruce’s) were wrought with stunningly intricate detail that Jim had never seen out of a museum, out of white gold, by the look of it. The neat little houses in the set were made out of mahogany, the hotels of red gold, and the deeds had a fine detail and weight to the paper that resembled real money. Jim was suddenly and awkwardly aware that the entire set was probably worth perhaps half a year of pay, and felt self-conscious about his new living arrangements all over again.

“We’re playing house rules,” Bruce told him earnestly. “No Chance or Community cards. Those are silly anyway.” 

Jim looked blank for a moment before he understood: Selina couldn’t read the cards, so it wouldn’t really be fair. “Did you pick the game?” Jim asked her.

“Yeah. I seen it once in a toy shop. Looked fun. Fake money and all,” Selina fanned out her stash before her face. “This set’s nicer than the one in the shop’s. Wish they made a little cat figurine instead of a dog one, though.” 

“I can get a cat one made,” Bruce assured her. “Since you’re going to be staying here for a while.” 

“Really?” Jim felt a little thrown by the sudden about-turn in events. “Here?” 

Selina shot him a pointed look, but Bruce was already adding, “Alfred found her in the woods. She was hiding from social services. Said they were going to put all the children upstate in the detention centre, even though they hadn’t committed any crimes. So we’re housing her here in the time being until Alfred can think of a solution. Maybe we could open some sort of shelter in the city. He’ll run the idea past the board of directors.”

“That’s very kind of the both of you.” So Alfred hadn’t mentioned a thing about Selina being a witness, then. “Good to see you again, Selina.”

“ _Cat_ ,” Selina corrected. “And it’s your turn. You got to roll the dice.”

Four rounds later, Jim was definitely lagging behind the children, due to a series of very bad turns at the dice, and Selina shot him a gleeful grin as Jim doled out rent, the top hat sitting accusingly on Selina’s third station. When Alfred reappeared with a tray of glasses of milk, an assortment of biscuits and sandwiches, Jim was relieved, but Alfred shook his head slightly when Jim made as if to get up. 

“Sir is doing so well,” Alfred said, utterly insincerely, and Selina giggled: Bruce even managed a quick grin. 

It was probably the first time Jim had seen Bruce make something that even remotely resembled a smile, and he tried not to stare, even as Alfred pointedly pushed the plate of sandwiches into his hands. Like everything that Alfred made, the sandwiches were cut with precision, into triangles, the filling some ludicrously good combination of (probably?) leftover roast chicken, cheese, salad and chutney, but as Jim looked up from the first bite to try and thank Alfred, Alfred was already gone.

After the sandwiches and cookies were finished, Jim conceded defeat, down to his last set of tenners. The children magnanimously accepted, allowing him to clear up the plates and cups and retreat, leaving the two young property magnates to duke it out. Alfred shot him another reproachful look when Jim walked into the kitchen with the dishes, hands dusty to the elbows in flour, pausing in the middle of kneading dough on the long stone bench.

Under his carefully rolled sleeves, Alfred’s arms were thick with muscle. There was a raw physical strength to him, Jim realized, that was usually hidden under the vests and the pressed shirts, but it was a soldier’s strength, not an athlete’s. There was nothing honed about Alfred’s poise at all, only what felt like a natural, predatory self-control, and for a moment, Jim very nearly licked his lips nervously. Quickly, he headed for the sink.

“You _do_ make the bread,” Jim said, carefully depositing the plates in the sink.

“No sir, I am afraid to advise that the bread falls out of bloody Heaven like manna, fresh every morning.”

God, that drawl, rough with amusement. Jim was definitely blushing this time, but he tried to hide it by attending to the dishes, ignoring Alfred’s pointedly cleared throat. “You took Selina in.”

“The girl ‘Cat’? Yes.” 

“Thought you didn’t want Bruce near her.”

“She’s here under a pretext, as you’ve hopefully ascertained.”

“Yes, but-“

“Cat mentioned that the killer might be… someone the family knows,” Alfred conceded, his tone troubled, and Jim shot him a glance over his shoulder. 

“I don’t think so, if it’s any help,” Jim said finally. “I mean. The gun, and the nature of the kill. Doesn’t strike me as the sort of person who might run in the Wayne circles.”

“You don’t know half as much about the ‘Wayne circles’ as I do,” Alfred said, sounding amused.

“Thomas and Martha were in the habit of associating with hitmen?”

“Not as such. But associating with… unsavoury people, sadly, is a normal consequence of doing business in Gotham, Detective. The old master _did_ know Don Falcone. As did your father.” 

Jim stiffened, but said nothing, soaping off the dishes and cups, rinsing the lot, then setting them in the rack to dry. “Father never mentioned knowing the Waynes.” 

“Not directly, no. By the way,” Alfred added, “Selina wanted to trade. A favour for a favour. She wants to find her mum. I’ve arranged for an investigator to take her case, but it’ll be good to get a second opinion, if you have the time.” 

“Shouldn’t be too difficult, if her mum’s in the system.” 

“Probably. The girl said that she was told that her mum was dead. So she might have an official file. I’ll like to see it. Name’s Maria Kyle.”

“Okay. I’ll do what I can.” Jim dried off his hands. “Whatever the reason, thanks for taking her in. I feel better with her off the streets. Especially right now.” 

“Your case made the evening news,” Alfred noted. “I’m surprised that the children haven’t spent all this time pestering you for the lurid details.”

Jim pulled a face. The killer’s second ‘exhibition’ had been ‘live’: somehow, the crazy bastard had managed to sneak seven bodies into the Gotham Portrait Gallery’s evening launch event. When the Durer collection had been set to be unveiled, what the press had seen in the East Wing instead had been a nightmare. “We’re working a few leads,” he said, all too aware of how lame that had to sound once he said it.

“Shocking business.” 

“Yeah. My partner Harvey? He’s been in the GCPD for years, and even he was pretty shaken up.” 

“Surely the killer can’t keep this up.”

“Maybe.” Jim sighed. “Fish Mooney thinks it’s an audition. Since we shot Gladwell, there’s a vacuum in the independent hitmen circle, apparently.”

“Rather elaborate to be just an audition, I should think,” Alfred said, eyebrows arching. 

“Yeah. I think it’s a serial killer. ‘Just’ some psychopath. No mafia ties involved. Except. It’s rather a strange thing for Fish to say.”

“Is this ‘Fish’ usually reliable?”

“As an informant? Mostly.” Jim pulled a face. “That’s what bothers me about all this. Neither Falcone nor Maroni really like disruption on this kind of scale. They don’t do murder for the sake of murder. For them, crime is business. Public fear’s bad for business. Nobody visiting their gambling or prostitution rackets.” 

“Perhaps Falcone wishes to find this killer on his own.”

“Doubt it. They’re happy to push things to the police for these kinds of matters,” Jim disagreed. “I think it’s ‘just’ a serial killer. But I don’t know.” 

“If it’s a serial killer, he or she will kill again.” 

“That’s for sure.” Jim nodded unhappily. “But no one knows whether these vics are going to be his fixed MO, or if they’re just… test runs, and he’s going to upgrade to something else. It’s not too hard to make homeless people disappear off Gotham’s streets. That’s why I’m pretty happy that Selina’s here.”

“She also seems to be good company for the young master,” Alfred conceded. “Though she’s a handful and a half, that girl. Well. Don’t let me keep you.”

“By the way,” Jim added, “If Selina does… identify someone. Or if she manages to find the killer. Call me. Anytime.” 

Alfred studied Jim for a long moment, his face absolutely expressionless. “Very good, sir,” he said finally, and Jim sighed.

“I’m serious. You can’t take the law into your own hands, if that’s what you’re thinking. And whoever it is will be dangerous. What will happen to Bruce if something happens to you?” 

“If whoever killed my _friends_ comes to this house,” Alfred said evenly, “You’ll likely come by just in time to pick up his body, _Detective_. But otherwise,” Alfred made a dismissive gesture, “Feel free to find and arrest the bastard.” ‘If you can’ remained unsaid, but the sentiment sat between them both, regardless.

“As long as we understand each other,” Jim pressed stubbornly. “If you’ve got to defend yourself and Bruce, sure. But no vigilante justice.”

“I’m not about to put on a mask and a cape and gad about fighting crime at my age. I’ll look like a right twat,” Alfred retorted, kneading the dough again. “If that’s what you’re getting at.”

“What I’m getting at is… I want your word that you won’t go chasing after the Waynes’ killer. If you find out who he is before I do.”

“…You’ve got no bloody right to ask for something like that from me,” Alfred said coldly, and there it was, in his eyes. It had been buttoned up tight so far, but Jim saw a flicker of fury, of a festering rage fuelled by an equally ugly grief, all before Alfred clamped the lid back over everything. “Would that be all, sir?” 

Jim tried to hold Alfred’s stare, but eventually, he looked away first, hunching his shoulders as he exhaled. “No. Thanks for dinner, Alfred.”


	5. Chapter 5

V.

Alfred made sure to schedule his return to Gordon’s rooms just in time to prevent the detective from manhandling the plateware, though not in time to stop Gordon from haphazardly stacking plates together. How did these people live with themselves? Wordlessly, Alfred re-stacked the plates, then noted to his irritation that Gordon’s collar was askew again, as was his tie, and fixed that to his satisfaction.

Gordon sucked in a tiny breath when Alfred tugged the tie into a proper position, and avoided Alfred’s questioning stare quickly. A little puzzled, Alfred hesitated, long enough to watch Gordon start to flush, and _then_ he understood. Finally understood. 

So. Gordon might be a _little_ bit sweet on Alfred. God, but he’d been bloody blind all this while. 

Well then.

Sadly, Alfred _did_ have a moral code, and Gordon was likely still torn up over the matter of his missus: Alfred would have to be a right bastard to try anything, however tempting it might be. Pity. Alfred pretended to straighten up Gordon’s suit as well, and brush lint off his shoulder, then bustled back to the plates when Gordon finally looked like he was about to offer some sort of halfhearted protest. 

“Ah,” Gordon cleared his throat. “Alfred. About what I said last night.”

“Yeah?” Alfred pointedly didn’t look up, and in his peripheral vision, he could see Gordon grimace. 

He expected a fumbling apology, or some sort of explanation, but instead, Gordon said, “I meant what I said.” 

“I know.” Despite his irritation at the bloody presumption of it all, it _was_ good to see that the young detective _did_ have some spine. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

“You can’t take obeying the law ‘under advisement’,” Gordon said stubbornly. “The law is what it is. Or it should be,” Gordon added, when Alfred let out a snort. 

“All right, Detective. I won’t be going about gunning people down just on a little girl’s say-so. Happy now?” 

Gordon eyed him suspiciously, probably scanning his words with his faulty American sarcasm detector. “Could you do it?” he asked finally. “Take on a hired killer. And win. You _were_ in the Marines. But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it?” 

“You’re saying that I’ve grown a wee bit long in the tooth since the old days, are you?” 

“I’m just saying that-” Gordon hesitated, uncomfortably, “I don’t want to have to worry over what you’d do. Or what would happen to you.” 

And Gordon _did_ care, in the same, bumbling way that he cared so fiercely about an ideal that didn’t quite exist in this city, over a job that didn’t deserve him. “Look,” Alfred said firmly. “You don’t have to worry about me. Where am I supposed to find the time to go haring off on wild goose chases, eh? You think those hedges trim themselves, d’you?”

Gordon managed a wry smile at that. “I was under the impression that you just didn’t sleep at all, actually.”

Alfred rolled his eyes. “Go and catch your serial killer, Detective.” 

It was about time to wake the children when Gordon left for work, but he found Cat already awake and dressed, in one of Bruce’s sweaters: a fluffy gray knit that was a little too short for her at the wrists. Buying the girl clothes would probably be inappropriate for now: she’d been reluctant enough when Alfred had tried to launder the few things that she _did_ have. In the end Bruce had played a hand of cards with her, some hybrid version of poker, and had ‘lost’ a number of old clothes and hats. Smart boy.

“Would you like to have breakfast in your room, or in the terrace balcony with the young master?” Alfred asked her, when he found her peeking out of her room.

“Terrace balcony,” Cat decided. 

“Righto. Head down the stairs and take a right, then a left into the east wing, and you’d see the room that opens to a wood-floored verandah overlooking the rose fountain. Can’t miss it.” 

“Are you going to clean up my room right now?”

“It’s my custom to straighten out a room after its use, yes.”

“I’ll do it. Since it’s my room.” 

“Young lady-“

“Isn’t it kinda weird for an old man to be fixing up a young girl’s room?” Cat asked, and grinned at him, the cheeky devil. 

“You’re turning out to be a right pain in the arse, you are,” Alfred told her, though without any heat. 

“ _Language_ , old man,” Cat told him, and stuck out her tongue, skipping out of reach when Alfred pretended to start for her. “I want fried eggs! And sausages. And toast and butter and jam.”

“I’m not _your_ bloody butler,” Alfred shot back, though after rousing Master Bruce from sleep, he did head back to the kitchen pantry for the pork and fennel sausages that he’d been saving for Friday’s luncheon. 

Despite already having been exposed to Cat’s appetite during dinner, Bruce still looked somewhat taken aback when Cat inhaled several helpings of eggs, toast, sausages, baked beans, grilled sweet peppers and bacon, finishing with a pot of yogurt and a hot chocolate. At least it rubbed off - Bruce had two whole slices of toast today, and eggs and beans. Alfred made a mental note to make something proper for dinner, thinking over possibilities as he cleared the breakfast spread.

“What’re you doing today?” Cat asked Bruce, cupping the mug in her hands, curled cross-legged on the chair despite Alfred’s disapproving stare. “I can teach you more card tricks.”

“I’m getting tutored in physics and chemistry,” Bruce said apologetically. 

“Isn’t that boring?”

Bruce shot Alfred a beseeching look, but Alfred’s expression remained blank. “Not really,” he said finally. “I like learning. You can sit in if you like.”

“Nah. I’ve got things to do.” Cat decided, then shot Alfred a cheeky grin. “But could I get something packed for lunch?”

“You’re pushing your luck, young lady,” Alfred said dryly, but he packed her a bag of roast beef and cheddar sandwiches anyway, when breakfast was cleared and Bruce’s tutors had arrived and had been looked over by Cat. “Need me to drive you out?”

“Nah. I’ll walk.” Cat said, taking the bag from Alfred and tucking it into her duffel. 

“You could leave that here if you liked.” Alfred nodded at the duffel, but Cat automatically clutched it to herself.

“I like having a bag around.” 

“Right then. Stay out of too much trouble.” 

Cat tilted her head. “Shouldn’t that be ‘stay out of trouble’?” 

“Sounds like that’d be a waste of breath, miss,” Alfred retorted, and Cat grinned at him again before slinking out of the manor. 

He was mowing the lawn when Bruce strode out of the manor, his tutors likely finished up for the day, and Alfred turned off the engine as his ward approached, checking his watch. It wasn’t yet time for tea. 

“Cat’s gone,” Bruce said. Ah yes.

“Cats come and go as they please.”

Bruce frowned at him. “Will she be back for dinner?”

“Very likely. That’s the thing about strays. Feed them once, they’ll be back forever.”

Bruce stuffed his hands into his pockets, a gesture that made him look altogether far too damned young. “Alfred. What’s special about Cat?” 

“Was something special about her? She seems like a bloody pain in the neck to me.” 

“She was watching from the stairs when you greeted my tutors in the foyer. Then you spoke to her before coming to get me.” 

Alfred sighed. Bruce was really going to be the death of him someday. “What did I say about sneaking about and spying on other people, eh? I told her to keep that nose of hers out of your business and out of sight, that’s all.” 

“You’ve never shown any interest in the street children before, either. And we’re not only giving her free room and board, you’re helping her find her mother.”

“If you don’t want her around the place-“

“I do! I do,” Bruce interrupted hastily. “I just thought. It seemed strange. That’s all. And Detective Gordon.”

“What about him?”

“He recognised her.” 

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Seeing as he saved her from a couple of murderous child kidnappers.” Damn that young detective. Gordon was really bad at acting. 

“I meant. It seemed like they were friends. She’s friendly, but wary around us, because we’re strangers. But around Gordon, she was relaxed.” Bruce persisted. “Alfred. If she’s someone important to Gordon’s case, like a witness or something, and the two of you are hiding her here, it’s okay. Her name’s clearly fake as it is. There’s no need to pretend around me. I’m happy to help Gordon.”

Bloody hell. That guess had been entirely too fucking close to the truth. “It’s a secret, okay?” Alfred said gruffly. “But yeah, it’s a police matter, okay? So don’t go prying, or pestering either Cat or Gordon for details. That girl’s far too curious for her own good as it is. Don’t need you to be, either. She’s had a hard time of it.”

“If she’s a material witness,” Bruce said doubtfully, “Maybe she shouldn’t be leaving the manor.”

“What am I supposed to do, lock her in the pantry? All I’ve agreed to do is let her stay here and feed her. Besides. She’s entirely her own woman, that girl. She’ll do as she pleases.”

“Yes. That she is.” Bruce agreed, relaxing. “I do think that she should learn how to read, though. And write. She’s very intelligent. She’ll pick it up quickly.”

“Well, Master Bruce,” Alfred decided. “That can be your project.” Hopefully it’ll keep Bruce out of further trouble.

5.0.

“Maybe he stopped,” Harvey said hopefully, as Jim read the victims’ profiles again. It had been a week since the last set of what the press was calling the Arthouse Murders, and the killer was off-schedule.

“Serial killers don’t just stop.”

“Well, maybe God did us cops a favour and gave the perp a heart attack,” Harvey scowled. “Lots of Americans die from heart attacks everyday.”

“Maybe his audition worked,” Jim countered, and Harvey pulled a face. 

“All _right_. Okay. There _was_ something weird about what Fish said, okay? I’ve been thinking it over. I’m wondering whether she was just trying to give us a hint.” 

“Or throw us off the scent.”

“Fish? Naw. If it was business she couldn’t help with, she’d tell us straight off.”

“ _Or_ throw us off the scent,” Jim said pointedly, and Harvey rolled his eyes.

“Not this again. There is _no_ scent, okay? I mean, what’s _your_ alternative theory, huh? That the perp’s just a serial killer? Why would Fish cover up for a serial killer, eh? One that’s just been going after hobos?”

“There has to be a clue in the murders themselves,” Jim said, looking back down at the files. “No signs of a struggle. Toxicology shows a sedative. Stomachs all removed and missing. Other than the amputations, the sutures and mutilations all approximate the Jack the Ripper cases. And the titles of the ‘exhibitions’ themselves. ‘The Killing Joke’ and ‘Just a Bad Day’?” 

“The perp’s right off his rocker, that’s what. Totally fucking cuckoo,” Harvey snorted. “And would you please stop talking about ‘sutures’ and ‘amputations’? Are you trying to put me off my lunch?”

Stomachs all removed and missing. “That’s it,” Jim said slowly. “The stomachs were all missing. Why’s that?” 

“‘Cos our perp’s a sicko? The women all had the uterus removed too, remember? ‘Sides, it ain’t _all_ like the Ripper cases. He didn’t cut anyone’s throat. And whatever was done to their face…” Harvey shuddered. “Nygma’s still figuring it out. He’s having a fucking _field_ day, that weirdo.” 

“The stomachs are all missing,” Jim said sharply, “Because there was something in them that linked all the vics together.” 

Harvey stilled. “Huh. Might have something there.”

“With the child kidnappers, they lured people in close with sandwiches. Maybe this is the same.” Jim thought this over, doodling absently on his notepad. “No, that doesn’t really make any sense. How would we be able to trace some food? If it was anything weird, I don’t think a homeless person would have tried it, even if they were really hungry.”

“Maybe it’s not what the food _is_ , but what it did,” Harvey rose sharply from his desk, and Jim tagged behind him quickly as his partner headed briskly towards Forensics. 

Nygma looked up from his workbench, where he seemed to be studying a number of slides under a microscope, and blinked at the both of them. “Detectives. What a curious surprise. I’ve said that I have nothing for you on the Arthouse murders. Professional bit of work, that one. No fibres, no prints.”

“What kinda food is digested real quickly?” Harvey began by asking briskly.

Nygma pursed his lips. There was something about Nygma that rubbed Jim the wrong way, no matter how Harvey told him that Forensics were always a bunch of people with a ‘notable lack of a full set of marbles’, and when Nygma smiled slowly, Jim tried not to stiffen up. “ _Oh-h-h._ That’s a clever little riddle. Interesting. That’s why the stomachs were removed, did you think?” 

“But if the food was digested quickly,” Jim said, puzzled, “Then there wouldn’t be any traces left in the stomachs, right?”

“Mm. Alcohol is the best vector, of course, but I doubt that it was the one used in this case. Fruits are also digested quickly. Things like melons, however, need to be eaten separately, or they’ll rot in the stomach. Iceberg lettuce is also good - it’s mostly water, you know. And clear broth and vegetable soups.” Nygma tapped his fingers on the workbench again. “Melons would be a fair guess. Unusual enough in the diet of a homeless person to pass comment. Or a soup, fleshed out with chunky ingredients.”

Harvey grunted, and started walking again. Jim offered Nygma a brisk thanks before catching up to his partner. “Nothing gets into the bloodstream immediately, unless it’s alcohol, right? How does the killer keep track of them? And then pick them all up without anyone else noticing?”

“Someone noticed,” Harvey pointed out irritably. “Your informant, remember? She told you that people were going missing. As to how the killer keeps track of them… you want to work out the first solid lead we’ve had on this case now, or sit around bitching about how it isn’t all the way solid?”

“So we go around asking who’s been handing out melons to the homeless?”

“I’ll start with the soup kitchens. Then the soup vans. I think the soup vans are a better bet. Maybe whoever’s new on the scene. Those child kidnappers used the same trick, yeah?” 

“What about me?”

“Glad you asked,” Harvey said, with a sharp grin. “I’m thinking maybe you should go talk to your hobo friends. Since you’re so good with them and all, and so _concerned_ about their welfare.” 

“I don’t _have_ homeless friends,” Jim protested, but it was a weak argument and they both knew it. 

A phone call to the mansion indicated that Selina had been out since morning, and Jim spent a few hours desultorily visiting a few shelters and the makeshift slums under Gotham Bridge and in the now-abandoned Eastern Gate Underpass, but as he’d thought, no one would talk to a cop. People on the street knew better than to trust a GCPD badge. 

Frustrated, Jim walked back to his car from the Underpass, wondering whether to just give it up as a bad job, find Harvey and then talk to Selina back in the manor at night, when he saw Selina perched on the bumper of his car, legs dangling. She had her bag slung over her shoulder, and she grinned and waved when she saw him, dressed in a sweater that was probably Bruce’s, short at the sleeves for her but well-made. 

“Hey,” Jim said, relieved. “Decided to move out?”

“Nope. Alfred makes an awesome breakfast.” 

“Should tell him that. He likes to hear it.” 

“He likes to hear it from _you_ ,” Selina corrected, and grinned cheekily at Jim when he frowned at her in confusion. “What’re you doing rustling up folks for?”

“We’re thinking that it’s possibly another fake soup van.” Quickly, Jim gave Selina a rundown of Nygma’s theory - minus the detail about the missing stomachs - and she rocked back against the car, folding her hands on her lap. 

“Hm. Melons, eh?”

“Might be anything. That’s quickly digestible. Either way, all those people who went missing? They probably visited the same van.”

“Then why just grab eight? Why not more?” 

“Killer only wants eight. Maybe there’s others out there who woke up from a deep sleep and nothing happened. No one would tell me.”

“Nobody would talk to a cop unless there’s something good in it for them,” Selina retorted, and winked at him. “Okay. Let me try. You wait here.” 

“Isn’t it obvious that you’re working with me, if you go right back in there and ask the same questions?”

Selina shot Jim an amused look. “I got my ways. Watch and learn, Detective.” 

So he did. Half an hour later, Selina was back, a jaunty spring to her step. “I think I should get paid for this,” she told Jim.

“Really? What about being a good citizen?”

“What about paying me the value of a bag of cat feed?” 

With a sigh, Jim handed over the money, and it disappeared quickly into Selina’s pockets. “Okay, Detective. The people who disappeared all went missing ‘bout a week apart, right?”

“The ‘gallery’ was discovered three days after the photographs-“

Selina rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but the vics went _missing_ one week apart. Maybe he took a little more time with the first set. Isn’t this kind of a key detail?” Selina asked snidely.

“Not particularly. If the killer was on a schedule, he would have already released another… thing by now. Three days after the gallery.” 

“Maybe he’s not on a schedule then. He’s a psycho,” Selina pointed out. “Whatever it is. What both groups had in common was, Monday was the day when they were doing the Oldtown circuit. That’s where some of the soup vans go. Some of the people with them said they tried a new van. It looked legit. Some sort of possibly churchy thing. The van was black, the person serving was dressed like a priest, and he was serving soup.” 

“Anyone got a look at his face?”

“Nobody really can agree. He’s got one of those forgettable faces. He was white, though.”

Jim made a note in his book. “All right. Thanks very much, Selina. Want me to drop you off back at the manor?”

“I can manage.” 

“What are you doing out here, anyway?”

Selina grinned at him. “Visiting a few friends.” She patted the pocket of her jeans where his money had ended up. “Oh, and I got this.” She fished in her back pockets, and passed him a creased slip of paper, postcard-sized, printed on cheap stock. “Massin said the priest guy was handing out brochures. He put it in his jacket to show willing and forgot about it.” 

Jim carefully flattened out the postcard. On the side facing him, in yellow print on black, were the words _Divine Comedy_. On the back was a paragraph in Italian. “Thanks, Selina.” 

“It’s _Cat_.”

He met Harvey back at the precinct. Nygma had identified the Italian paragraph on the postcard as a quote from some sort of literary work by some guy called Dante Alighieri, same title as the words in yellow print. There were only three sets of prints on the card: Jim’s, probably Selina’s by the size of one set, and likely Massin’s, by how grubby the last set was. No luck there. 

“It’s a black van on the Oldtown circuit,” Jim told Harvey. “Staffed by a priest.”

“Yeah. Does business out of car parks rather than the authorised drop offs,” Harvey replied gruffly. “I talked to one of the soup van operators who does the same circuit. They didn’t think it was weird, some new outfit showing up now and then on an irregular basis. They didn’t say anything about a priest, though. We’ll put an APB on the van, but-“

“But police presence isn’t usually high in the Oldtown circuit,” Jim finished. 

“That’s the thing.” Harvey clapped Jim on his shoulder. “How’s that? Your first overnight stakeout. Bring a sandwich, a bottle of water, and an empty bottle to piss in and you’ll be all set.” 

“ _My_ stakeout? There’s got to be at least a _few_ carparks in the Oldtown circuit. Shouldn’t we split the work?” 

“The priest isn’t just going to unload his shit and then light off, is he? Soup vans are usually out for at least a couple of hours. Plenty of time to do a few turns around the block. Call me if you see our divine prankster.” 

Jim sighed.


	6. Chapter 6

VI.

Alfred had given Gordon the manual override code for the gate when Gordon had mentioned apologetically that he might be back very late. Even so, as was his habit, Alfred woke up when the security room automatically paged him when the override was used, and was dressed by the time Gordon parked and navigated his way out of the garage.

“Wow. You really don’t sleep.” Gordon was tired enough that his grin was lopsided, to Alfred’s amusement. 

“Have you had dinner?”

“Yeah. Bought something for the stakeout.” Gordon yawned. “I’ll just turn in now if that’s all right with you. Sorry if I woke you.”

“As you said, sir, I don’t sleep,” Alfred said, and Gordon grinned at him, boyishly handsome, tired enough not to be self-conscious about it. Charmed despite himself, Alfred found himself walking Gordon to his room, listening to Gordon mumble on about his case. The stakeout had been unsuccessful, it seemed, but Gordon was going to have to keep at it, damn his lazy partner. 

“Selina got back okay?” Gordon asked, badly trying to stifle his yawns, when they were at the door to the Lincoln room.

“Yes she did, in time for dinner and an episode of the Gray Ghost. Master Bruce regrets your absence.”

“S’fine.” Gordon yawned again. “Her room’s the one with the view of the maze, right?” 

“Indeed. It was her choice.”

“Which one’s yours?” Gordon asked sleepily, probably too tired for propriety and so earnest about it. “I couldn’t really figure it out. All the rooms on this level kinda look the same.” 

“My rooms are in the servant’s quarters. Do you need a wake up call tomorr… later today?”

“Wait.” Gordon frowned at him. “You live in the _servant’s quarters_? All this time?”

Alfred tried not to roll his eyes. “No sir, I actually just haunt the corridors of the manor in lieu of sleeping.”

“But that’s…” Gordon trailed off. “But you’re not a servant. You’re his guardian. A family friend. I-“ Gordon cut himself off, with a helpless backward glance over the old-world finery of his own room.

“I assure you I am quite comfortable,” Alfred said blandly, and when Gordon lingered at the doorway, added, “Sir.”

Gordon grimaced. “Okay. Okay. It’s none of my business. I hear you.” 

“Good. Now. Would sir require a wake up call in the morning? Later in the morning?”

“No.” Gordon yawned. “Captain said I could sleep in, since I’m doing the graveyard shift. I’ll probably be up about an hour later than usual.” 

“That’s your idea of sleeping in, eh?” Alfred drawled, but Gordon merely grinned at him again.

Charming. 

Back in his room, Alfred changed back into his nightshirt, folding away his clothes, and lay stiffly on the bed, staring at the low ceiling. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to remember, a little guiltily, what Gordon had looked like under his suit, that boyish grin, that _earnestness_ , and Alfred’s hand was brushing under his nightshirt, grasping himself dry, gritting his teeth as the first pull caught too much friction to be comfortable.

God. Alfred would love to do it, too. Pin Gordon to a wall and take him apart. He wondered if Gordon had ever had a man, or if all he was used to were pretty socialites like Barbara Kean, whose idea of a bit of rough might be fluffy cuffs and some pot. Wondered if Gordon would be loud when shattered.

With a grunt, Alfred spilled over his fingers, sticky and messy, and he sighed. Between one stuttered breath and the next, he locked the fantasy away, and got up to clean himself up. 

Thankfully, Gordon was too impressed by the breakfast spread to notice anything untoward in the morning. An hour ‘sleep in’ meant that Gordon was in time to take breakfast with Cat and Master Bruce in the terrace, and Alfred had prepared a charcuterie spread, poached eggs, ham hock, corn fritters, housemade tomato chutney and jams, toast, fresh croissants and a selection of cheese. 

“I can’t believe that you eat like this everyday,” Cat told Bruce indistinctly, in a mouthful of croissant and butter.

“Don’t speak with your mouth full, young lady,” Alfred said severely, as he poured coffee for Gordon, but she rolled her eyes at him. 

“Well, not everyday,” Bruce said, and smiled briefly. “I think Alfred’s just showing off since we have guests. I didn’t much feel like eating after… after what happened.”

“Oh.” Cat hesitated, then hunger overtook good manners, and she inhaled the rest of her croissant. “Well. You seem better now. Maybe?”

Bruce _did_ seem better. He was certainly back to having full helpings, at least when Cat was around. “I guess. How was the stakeout?” he asked Gordon, who was busy blissfully stuffing his face with the charcuterie spread. 

“Those kinds of things take time,” Gordon said, washing down his mouthful with coffee. “But it’s a good tip off, thanks to uh, Cat. How’s the private investigator going for you?”

“He said there were holes in the police file you gave me that were big enough to drive a truck through.” Cat said, with a grin. “But also that it wasn’t really something new where Gotham was concerned.”

Gordon winced. “Yeah. Well. That’s the official file on it.” 

“He’s making inquiries with some shelters. Got some good contacts.” Cat pulled a face. “And he’s going to meet my dad up in the state pen in a few days.” 

Bruce’s hand stilled for a moment before he kept eating his poached egg, and Gordon blinked. “Uhuh. Sounds like progress.” 

“I don’t care about _him_ ,” Cat said fiercely. “He deserves what he got. Whenever he drank, he got angry. Whenever he got angry, me and mum _both_ got it. I just don’t think he done killed her like the police said. I think she ran for it. She always thought she was the one he was mad at.” 

“Okay,” Gordon said gently, even as Bruce blanched. “Well. Sounds like you’re in good hands.”

“Yeah. Are you going to be done by the weekend?” Cat asked. “Bruce said we should go to San Diego Zoo. It’s more awesome than Gotham’s. They got _snow leopards_.”

“Isn’t that a bit of a long drive?” Gordon asked, with a glance at Alfred.

“Alfred’s a qualified pilot,” Bruce said blithely, and took a sip of milk even as Gordon looked briefly discomfited all over again. “We can take my plane.” 

“Uh. I’ll see. Maybe if I really am ‘done’ by the weekend.”

The children piled off after breakfast, apparently to check out a vixen and her family of cubs off on the grounds near the gardening shed, and this time, when Gordon tried to stack the plates, Alfred swatted him lightly on the wrist. Gordon bit down a yelp, then he grinned, and hell, even fully sober and awake, that smile was a bloody menace. 

“I haven’t broken anything yet.” 

“‘Yet’ being the keyword, I think. Does sir require something else?” 

“Nope. Um. I’ll probably check out a few rental places on the weekend. I really do feel bad about just living here for free.”

Alfred eyed Gordon thoughtfully, but Gordon was staring hard at the garden. “Is this about last night?” Alfred asked finally. “You finding out about me rooms?”

“No. I mean. Maybe. Well. This was just meant to be temporary. I mean. I don’t want to leech off someone. Especially a kid.”

“You can pay rent if you like,” Alfred drawled, which got a startled laugh.

“I don’t think I can afford you. I mean this place,” Gordon corrected hastily, and couldn’t quite hide his blush, and God, Alfred wanted to pin him to the nearest wall and-

“What makes you think you can’t afford me?” Alfred asked deliberately. He couldn’t help it, and it was worth it, watching Gordon flush all the way to his collar and back away, squeaking excuses about having to get to work. 

The glow of satisfaction and amusement lasted as long as it took for Alfred to get all the plates for the kitchen, then he felt a wee bit guilty all over again. 

Ah hell. It was just a harmless bit of flirting anyway. And he’d obviously been bloody rusty at it.

6.0.

Possibly because the Almighty was conspiring against him today, Jim slunk out of the… Incident… at the manor and right into another Incident at the goddamned _precinct_. And this time, _Harvey_ was there, lounging against the desk, pulling a mildly constipated but mostly sympathetic face as he made small talk with _Barbara_.

“Barbara?” Jim asked incredulously, when he got to his desk, “What are you doing here?”

She turned to greet him, and behind her back, Harvey offered him an awkward grimace that was possibly meant to be apologetic. “I uh, tried to call your phone,” Harvey told him. 

Oh. The phone had been on silent thanks to the stakeout. “Ah.”

“Jim, can we talk for a moment?” 

Jim glanced at Harvey, who shrugged. He was on his own. “Coffee shop across the street all right with you?” he asked dryly. “Rather than the middle of the precinct?”

Barbara flinched, and Jim felt a little sorry about that, but she followed him out of the precinct, past the rows of curious stares, quiet all the way to the small cafe. Since it was close to the precinct, it was copper territory, full of beat cops loading up on their midmorning coffees, but Jim and Barbara managed to squeeze into a small table right at the back. Jim ordered his coffee black, and Barbara asked for her usual chai latte, folding her manicured hands delicately over the sticky table. 

“How’ve you been?” Barbara asked softly. 

“What do you think?” Jim hadn’t intended to sound as harsh as he did, and hastily gentled his voice when Barbara flinched again. “I’m all right.”

“Your partner was telling me about your new big case.” 

“Yeah. A lot of late nights.” Jim conceded, wondering where this was going. 

“He said that… he said that you’ve been really distracted. Because of me.” 

Damn Harvey and his big mouth. Jim looked away, uncomfortable all over again. To tell the truth, other than the first couple of days, he hadn’t quite had the time to mull over the break up. He _had_ felt something for Barbara, he had been sure of it. But the storm had been coming for a while, and Jim had been a soldier. He had been prepared for it, whether he had known it then or not.

“I’m fine,” Jim said curtly, and they sat in an uncomfortable silence until their coffees arrived. 

“Harvey also said… he said that you moved in with someone,” Barbara added, her lips thinning. “Just for now. But he thought it was more of a ‘rebound thing’.” 

He was going to _shoot_ Harvey. “Barbara. It’s not like that. I moved in with a friend, that’s all. I don’t have the time to look for a place of my own yet, especially with this big case.”

“Isn’t it just a matter of putting your name up with some rental agents, and letting them do the legwork?”

Were they really going to- “Are we really going to fight about this?” Jim pinched at the bridge of his nose.

“We’re not fighting. And don’t look at me like that,” Barbara added flatly. “I didn’t think you’d move on so quickly. I guess I was wrong about you.”

“ _Barbara_. I moved into _Wayne Manor_.” 

That stopped her indignation right in its tracks. “ _Wayne_ Manor? What-“

“I’m friends with Bruce Wayne. He insisted. I’m going to find my own place this weekend though. I think I’m getting on his butler’s nerves. Especially whenever I try to help with the dishes. He’s convinced that I’ll break them or something.”

“Oh. _Oh_.” Barbara clutched at her latte. “I’m sorry, Jim. I didn’t know. I mean, your partner said-“

“My _partner_ was probably thinking that he just did me a favour,” Jim muttered. “He’s got a really sixties’ sort of view about women. Pre-suffrage, even.”

“He thought maybe if he made me jealous things would just work out?” Barbara asked dryly, with that gorgeous secretive amusement about her, so painfully familiar all at once. It had been one of the reasons why he had fallen in love with her. 

“I think he probably spends his free time watching old sitcoms. It’ll explain his endearing approach to working the beat,” Jim confided, despite himself, and mimicked Harvey’s gruff tone. “‘I know you did it! You did it, didn’t you! We saw you did it! Just admit it! Make it easier for yourself!’”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Barbara said, her hand jumping to her mouth as she laughed, then she looked around hastily, as though Harvey might be lurking behind the coffee machine. “Really?”

“You see what I have to work with?” Jim asked, and it felt like they were good again, like everything had worked out, but then reality sank in all over again. “Look, Barb. I’m sorry how it turned out.”

“I know,” Barbara said quietly. “And I still think… I still think a break’s good for the both of us right now. I’m sorry too.”

“No, you’re right.” Jim assured her. “It’s good for us right now. The thing is. I’ve got… my work _has_ secrets, Barbara. Informants, clues that the press can’t yet know, witnesses, more. I can’t share everything about my life with you. Not anymore.” 

“That’s the Jim I know,” Barbara whispered. “Honest to a fault. Hell take the consequences. I just need to know, Jim. This thing that… that Renee said. Did you do it?” 

Jim looked around. The cafe had gone quiet: the morning rush of coppers had left, and they were mostly alone. No one was looking at them. Slowly, he shook his head, and Barbara’s breath hissed out in a rush. “I should have known. Why didn’t you just _say_ something?”

“I can’t tell you.” Jim muttered. “I mean, for God’s sake, you asked me about it in the middle of the precinct! It’ll put people in danger.”

“Why didn’t you say something to Renee?” 

“I did. She didn’t believe me. And now that you’ve told me about… about you and her, I can see why she has cause to kinda think the worst of me.”

Barbara scowled. “I’m going to talk to her.”

“No, please don’t. Barbara, please,” Jim added hastily, when Barbara’s frown deepened. “You’d just make it worse. If she digs any more, she’ll ruin everything.” 

“All right,” Barbara said reluctantly. “I just wish… all right.” She forced a laugh. “In a way, this was my fault. I made you take this job. Forced you to move back into this crazy city.”

“No, no. Don’t think that way,” Jim said quickly. “I’m glad I’m here.”

“You are?” Barbara asked skeptically. 

“Yeah. I think that maybe I can make a difference. A real difference. But it’ll take time.”

“Even when you fell out of the sky from a balloon?”

“Even then,” Jim said, managing a small smile in answer to Barbara’s tentative one. “And that wasn’t exactly how that happened.”

“All right.” Barbara’s hand tensed on the table, then she reached out quickly and touched his knuckles. “Stay safe, Jim.” 

Back at the precinct, Harvey squirmed around at his desk while Jim studied the paperwork, and Jim let his partner stew for half an hour before he finally said, “And _don’t_ try to help me out again.”

“Aww hell,” Harvey whined. “I was trying to give you a hand. Women look at this face and don’t suspect nothing.”

Jim groaned. “Well… thanks. For trying. But don’t do it again. Please.”

“So are you moving back in with her?” 

“No!” 

“All right, all right,” Harvey said comfortingly. “Baby steps. Is she at least less mad?”

“No thanks to you actually, but yes. We agreed we need a break.”

“Son,” Harvey said dryly, “When you hook a fish as way out of your league as Barbara Kean, you should hang the hell on to her.”

“What happened to ‘some women aren’t cut out to be copper’s wives’?”

“What was I meant to do,” Harvey spread his arms expansively, “Rub your face in it while you were all sad and throwing up and drunk as a skunk?” 

“It’s what you said the day after too!” 

“You were _hung over_. Sucker punching you in the gut wasn’t right.”

Jim sighed. “Nevermind. All right? We need a break. Think things over.”

“Like whether she prefers you or prefers women?” Harvey leered, with an old copper’s utter lack of tact, but thankfully, years in the Army and his time so far in the GCPD had eroded Jim’s sense of immediate moral outrage. 

“Maybe,” Jim retorted evenly, just to shut Harvey up. “Now can we talk about work?”

“So it’s going to be like that, is it?” Harvey asked mournfully. “I stick my neck out for you and you just wanna talk about work.”

“You didn’t stick your neck out for me,” Jim retorted, “You kinda just… poured oil on the situation and tried to set fire to it.” 

“You’re _so_ ungrateful,” Harvey muttered, but deigned to come along on the night’s stakeout. Jim was pleasantly surprised for all of five minutes, as he parked unobtrusively off the street, in view of the first car park of the night, and then Harvey opened his mouth. 

“You know,” Harvey said thoughtfully, “Maybe it could work out, if you didn’t marry her but just saw her after work and had your own place. Get the nookie without having to do the weightlifting, you know?”

“Oh my _God_ , Harvey.”

“Just sayin’,” Harvey said loftily, and started to unwrap his burger. 

After an hour of thankfully blessed silence, when they were on their second circuit, Harvey added, “You could talk to Lieutenant Barnes, you know. I’ll introduce you.”

“What about him?”

“He works in Narcotics.”

“And?”

“And he’s about ten years on with his girlfriend right now. Big success story. For a cop.” 

“ _Harvey_.”

“Seriously. Maybe that’s your problem. Maybe you just need to get laid a lot more. Work the stick out from your ass.”

Jim fought the urge to bang his head on the steering. “Can we please. Stop talking. About my personal life.”

“Just trying to help.”

“Okay, thanks. But please _stop_.”

“You know, Jim,” Harvey began, then he stopped, frowning as they nudged around the block and came in sight of one of the prospective car parks. A black van was parked up front, already attracting a small crowd of the homeless as a man in a cassock and priest’s collar gave out cups of soup. “Well, I’ll fucking be. We hit the jackpot.” 

Jim parked the car at the curb. “What’s the plan?”

“We bumrush him, cuff him, and close the case?”

“Good plan,” Jim decided. Harvey was already getting out of the car, but even as he got a couple of steps across the road, the ‘priest’ froze, abandoned the pot of soup and styrofoam cups, and lunged for the door of the van. 

“Stop! _GCPD!_ ” Harvey roared, but the van was already lurching to life, the homeless scattering away as it charged out from the parking lot. Harvey swung himself back into the cop car, and Jim accelerated, hunched over the wheel, even as Harvey called dispatch.

“This is 221-Adam in Oldtown, 17th street, 3rd Avenue, we’ve got a suspect on the run from a 187, black van, northbound down 17th street, number plate 33218, over.” 

“10-4, 221-Adam,” the dispatcher’s voice crackled briskly over the radio, as Jim swerved a hard right, following the van as it picked up speed. “81 and 60 are en-route.” 

“10-4.” Harvey held the radio away from him for a moment, his grin sharp and white against the passing glare of a street lamp. “I like it when they run.”


	7. Chapter 7

VII.

Instead of wandering off after breakfast with her packed lunch, Cat hesitated at the doorway to the foyer, glancing out at the driveway, then back at Alfred. “You really think that Detective Gordon is going to be okay?”

Gordon hadn’t returned last night, which hadn’t worried Alfred until the morning news had broken: there had been a late night car chase, which had ended under Gotham Bridge. The only thing that had been found was a black van. The suspect, Gordon, Harvey Bullock and their car had seemingly vanished off the face of the earth.

“He’s a big boy. He can take care of himself. Used to be in the army, y’know.” Alfred said, as firmly as he could. 

“Bruce was worried.” 

“I suppose he would be.”

“I’m worried too.”

“Good to hear. You have an appointment with your PI over in the manor at six. Try not to be late.” 

Cat made a face at him, and scarpered. Alfred occupied himself by doing the dishes, trying to ignore his simmering unease. He hadn’t realized how used he had gotten to Gordon, and it hadn’t even been very long at all. Less than two weeks, even. He attacked the rooms with a methodical and vicious dusting, just to keep his mind off it, and fixed Bruce a light meal for lunch. At breakfast, Bruce had lost his appetite all over again. 

As Alfred thought, depressingly enough, Bruce only took a spoonful of the consommé before setting down his spoon. “There haven’t been any developments.” 

Alfred nodded. Bruce had been glued to the television all morning, the plans and Wayne Enterprises documentations that usually occupied his free time left untouched on the divan and desks. 

“The last survivor died, you know,” Bruce added. “Overnight in hospital. He never recovered.”

Alfred tried not to shudder. He remembered the details of that ‘survivor’ all too well. “Aye.”

Bruce nibbled on his lower lip. “That’s not going to happen to Jim, is it? His partner too.”

“I’m sure the police work extra hard on a case when one of their own is missing. Two of their own, in this case.”

“It’s _awful_ ,” Bruce said fiercely. “Something like this. It feels like the police aren’t even equipped to deal with it.” 

“The police have been doing this sort of work for a bloody long time, Master Bruce. They’re as equipped for it as anyone.” 

Bruce frowned at the tv screen again. “I wish I could go and take a look at the crime scene. Where the van is.” 

“And you think you can do better than the police and forensics, d’you?” 

“Not me,” Bruce glanced at him. “Not yet, maybe. But you can.” 

“Ah-“

“Dad’s told me many times about how you saved his life in the Middle East. Tracked him through the Hindu Kush and caught up with the people who kidnapped him. Freed him single-handedly.”

“That’s not nearly how I remember it. Look, Master Bruce. Gotham isn’t the Hindu Kush. And what makes you think that anyone will let me take a look at a crime scene, eh?”

Bruce took a card out from his pocket. “The mayor might.” 

Unfortunately, the Rules didn’t cover this kind of thing: not that Alfred thought that the old master (rest his soul) might ever have considered the possibility that his precious darling son might ever be remotely interested in police work. The mayor personally assured Bruce over the phone that Alfred would not only be allowed entry into the crime scene but that the Captain herself of the GCPD would be very cooperative, and sourly, Alfred had no choice but to drive Bruce down after all. 

As it turned out, Bruce had no intention of waiting in the car, and Alfred internalised a sigh as Bruce ducked under the police tape at the Gotham bridge and approached the van, neat and dressed up in his gray wool coat. The police on the scene exchanged glances, but said nothing, thankfully enough, as Alfred ducked under the tape and followed. 

“One set of tyre marks,” Bruce told him, pointing. “The van was dumped here, it wasn’t chased here.”

“That’s right. Prints going back up. ‘Bout size nine, give or take. Not Gordon’s, he’s about a ten point five. See the indent into the mud? Ain’t Harvey Bullock either, the man would’ve left a bigger dip.” 

“So it was the killer.” Bruce decided.

“Looks that way.” Alfred studied the van uncomfortably. He was far out of his depth, no matter what the young master might think. He glanced inside the van, through the back - empty - and at the front, also empty. The wheel had been dusted for prints: ineffectively, it looked like. 

“Have you run the license plates?” Bruce was asking a skinny, tall man wired with an odd nervous energy, standing closeby. Judging by his coat and clothes, and the lingering scent of formaldehyde, Alfred supposed that this was some manner of forensic tech.

“Well yes. Shell company. No registered address in Gotham.” The tall man looked at Bruce curiously. “You’re a child.”

“And you’re in forensics.”

“Not very much of a riddle, that one.” 

“Do you have a better one?” 

The forensics tech smiled, thin and tight. “Oh yes. Oh yes I do. Why _were_ the stomachs of the murder victims removed?”

“Now see here,” Alfred said sharply, “That’s nothing that you should be saying to a kid!” 

“Quiet, Alfred,” Bruce said firmly. “Because the stomachs had something that the killer wanted to hide.” 

“Very good. But what exactly? Food? Food’s everywhere. The pot that was recovered from the car parking lot just had soup. Laced with sedatives, mind you, but neither the soup nor the sedatives were uncommon enough to be traceable.” 

“Sedatives,” Bruce mused. “Soup. Feeding victims from a soup van. Somehow picking them up afterwards. There was something else in the soup. Something that allowed the killer to trace his victims.” 

The forensics tech looked visibly pleased. “Oh yes. Oh yes indeed. That should work.” 

“There weren’t any trackers left in the soup?”

“No. I presume the killer has a way of feeding those out first. Just to ensure that his victims would most certainly be asleep by the time he comes looking.”

“Could you trace the receiver?”

“Depends on the type of tracker. But yes. I do believe there should be two more trackers out there, at the least. After all,” the forensics tech said, with his unnerving smile, “The killer only works with eight bodies at a time.” 

Even Bruce was disturbed by that, when they finally headed away from the crime scene and back to the car. “Are we finished here then?” Alfred asked impatiently. 

“Cat’s in the car,” Bruce said blandly.

“What?”

Cat grinned at them both as they got into the car. “I broke in. Sorry.”

“Points for honesty, less points for lack of remorse.” Alfred told her. “What d’you want, aye? What are you doing here?”

“I came to look at the crime scene. Obviously.”

“What is _wrong_ with children nowadays?” Alfred muttered. “How old are you? Eleven?”

“Thirteen,” Cat told Alfred loftily. “I got the police a present, too. But I don’t want to talk to them. So you got to. Before you showed up, I was thinking about just throwing it at one of them.” She held out a baggie. Some effort had been made to tie it up in plastic, but Alfred jerked back from the rank stench of it. 

“What the bloody hell are you doing bringing filth like that into the car?”

“Those are the trackers, aren’t they?” Bruce asked earnestly. “Soup gets processed quickly. It must have passed out of the gut of the-“

Hastily, Alfred folded his pocket handkerchief - not that he’d ever use it again - and confiscated the baggie, holding it through the fabric. Back at the crime scene, the forensics tech looked mildly fascinated rather than surprised, and Alfred hustled back to the little monsters in the car. 

“So?” Cat asked, when Alfred got in. At least Bruce had the common sense to roll down the windows. The dank air of the river was marginally better than Cat’s ‘present’.

“So what?” Alfred asked irritably.

“What are we doing now? Are the police going to trace the signal?”

“S’pose they are, which is why I think our job here is done, thank you both, and I’m taking the both of you back to the manor.”

“Surely the killer would know that we’d find the trackers,” Bruce said. 

“That’s a bit of a leap of faith.” Alfred told him. “If Cat hadn’t nosed around, d’you think any of the homeless would have come forward with that kind of thing? How did _you_ know what to look for anyway, miss?”

“She didn’t,” Bruce said. “She just knew that the black van was involved. So she went around asking people who had taken food from the black van, and found two people who came forward with trackers. We make a good team, don’t we? I told her that the killer dumped the van and probably made off with the detectives in their car.”

“Oh you did, did you?” Alfred sighed. “And how exactly did some lightweight overpower two detectives and make off with them and their car, hm?”

“Can’t make judgments without data,” Bruce said, and shot Alfred a grin. “That’s what you usually say.”

“However he did it, he’d have to dump the car,” Alfred muttered. “Too conspicuous. Every cop in the city will be looking out for it. Once the police find it, they might have a lead there. Unless he changed vehicles, but I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“Doubt our killer’s very much of a big man, judging from his weight. Don’t know how easily he’d be able to lug our two detectives from one vehicle to another. Assuming they’re unconscious, even, and not just restrained and hollering. He’d likely have driven the vehicle straight to wherever he won’t be disturbed. Moving bodies is a bitch, let alone ones that ain’t yet dead.” Alfred said. “So the cops will find it. They’re looking everywhere.” 

Cat made a dismissive huff. “There’s places where cops will never look.” 

“Really?” Bruce looked instantly curious. “Like where?”

“Oh no you don’t, Master Bruce. I’m getting the both of you home before you catch a chill from this ghastly weather-“

“Alfred,” Bruce said firmly, “Maybe you should just drive.”

7.0.

Waking up naked in what looked like an old circus animal cage was _not_ Jim’s idea of fun.

His cheek was mashed into the old steel floor, and Jim tried groggily to get up. The night was chilly enough that his skin was peppered in goosebumps, and he shivered. The cage was in a circular… tent, Jim supposed, squinting at the rusting old struts around them, a large tent, and his cage had been rolled up to the front row seats, wedged in the exit row, the seats themselves long covered with grime and weather damage, their once-bright orange now a dull yellow. The fabric that had once stretched tight over the struts now sagged, rotten through in yawning gaps in places to show the night sky.

Sheets of plastic covered the ring, and at the centre a long steel bench, upon which had been arrayed a neat row of… tools, starting from small scalpels to filleting knives and more, lit up by portable LED surgical lights. A bone saw sat at the very end, plugged to a small generator, and Jim’s stomach churned. 

“Well, you’re finally up,” Harvey growled. Jim looked sharply to the side. Harvey was in an identical cage in the next exit row, also naked, though Harvey was sitting cross-legged and scowling at the operating table as though he didn’t even register his nakedness. 

“What happened?”

“Don’t remember? Perp stopped the van, we start to get out to investigate, and he gasses us with something that knocks us out. Next thing I know, we wake up here.” Harvey looked up at the night sky, then back at the operating table. “We’re dead.”

“Not dead yet.” Jim braced his back against the rusty bars and tried kicking at the padlocked door. No give. Harvey grunted. 

“I tried that first thing.” 

“Where _are_ we?” 

“Little bit out of the city proper. This here used to be Gotham Circus,” Harvey jerked his chin at the rotting tent around them. “Was also an amusement park. Whatever the plan, it wasn’t so popular, and the owners got buried in debt. Couldn’t even afford people to come in and clear out their stuff. What with one thing after another, no one really had the money or time to raze the damn place.” 

“Surely the GCPD is looking everywhere for us right now.” 

“They won’t look here,” Harvey grumbled. “Nothing here but the occasional hobo. You could catch tetanus just walking around this shitpile. We’re dead. I just wish I knew what the asshole did with my hat.” 

Jim shot Harvey an incredulous look, but at that point, there was a sudden blare of orchestral music, coming from speakers that had probably been hidden in the stands. Harvey yelped out an oath that turned into a curse, as a man dressed like a circus clown - baggy spotted red pants, yellow flowing sleeved shirt, polka-dotted bow tie, and a bright pink-haired clown mask and all - strolled in, pushing a gurney before him.

Upon it was a naked Hispanic man, strapped down at the wrists and ankles, middle-aged, his hair greasy and unwashed, fingernails filthy, but otherwise looked as though he had been hosed clean. He was writhing and jerking at the straps, but unsettlingly enough, he was also laughing, grinning widely and broadly from ear to ear, his eyes rolling white in his eyes and his teeth bared, but still laughing, harshly, helplessly, the brittle edge of madness.

Jim didn’t realize that he had flattened himself against the back of the cage until he felt the rusted bars digging into the back of his elbows. The masked clown pressed a remote, and the music switched off; the remote itself was placed carefully down on the surgical bench. 

“Gentlemen,” the clown addressed them, over the naked man’s helpless laughter. “Detectives Gordon and Bullock. My apologies for the theatre. One is very partial to his Rossini.”

The clown was American and male, but other than that, Jim couldn’t pick out anything else under the baggy clothes. “Look, son,” Harvey growled, “We’re cops. You think you can kill cops and get away with it? We’re not a couple of homeless people. You should let us go. Right now.” 

“I’m not going to kill either of you,” the clown said regretfully, even as he carefully taped down the victim’s mouth, stifling him. “Orders, you see. Orders. You’re not part of the audition. Not really. But it does mean that I’m two pieces down, but what can you do? The client is always right.”

Harvey looked sharply over at Jim, who grimaced. So much for casting aspersions on Fish Mooney. “Audition for what?” Jim asked flatly. 

“Why,” the clown chuckled, his laugh hoarse and sounding more practiced than anything, “At being the first inmate worthy of the Arkham project, of course.” 

“That’s-“ Jim began.

“-totally understandable,” Harvey cut in hastily. “But look. Everyone knows how, uh, totally worthy you are. All the things you’ve done so far. It’s really original. You stand out from the crowd, man, you totally do. So why don’t you uh, let us out of here, and we’ll call… we’ll call the mayor, okay? Make sure you’re front and centre of the Arkham project.”

“You make a good point, you truly do,” the clown said mournfully, “But the show must go on. Even with just six out of eight. You see,” the clown added, with another hoarse laugh. “Seven out of seven days, usually it’s a good day. But sometimes you get a day right out of the blue that just breaks everything to pieces. A very bad day. Observe.” 

The body on the gurney strained violently as the clown picked up the scalpel and made the first incision, from the breastbone to the pelvis, and Jim looked away, sickened.

“Ah, ah,” the clown purred. “You both watch.” 

“Or what?” Jim grit out.

“I was told that the two of you aren’t part of the show, Detective. But I made no promises as to what sort of… condition you were meant to be returned in, as long as you were both still alive.” 

“Just look up, Jim,” Harvey said, his teeth gritted, pale, probably thinking, as Jim was, of the amputee victim who had died, insane and screaming and crying. “It’s gonna be okay.” 

The victim died when the clown, eventually, snipped off his stomach, lifting the whole bloody mess into a waiting tray, and Jim was throwing up, unable to help himself, his eyes burning from tears. “Look at that mess,” the clown chided. 

“You’re sick,” Jim gasped, “Why are you doing this to us? Why?”

“Sometimes it just takes a _ba-ad_ day to push you over the edge, Detective,” the clown warbled, then let out a low, barking laugh.

“Yeah?” Jim snarled, furious all over again, “You let me out of this cage, I’ll _show you_ pushing me over! Let me out, damn you! What are you, a fucking coward? What the hell happened to you?”

“You don’t get to ask me what happened to me,” the clown growled back, taking a menacing step closer, covered in arterial blood as he was. “You don’t get to ask.” 

The killer looked like a nightmare made flesh, but Jim was too angry to care now, too heartsick and horrified, beyond terror. “What happened to you?” 

“Shut _up!_ ” The clown let out an inarticulate roar, and grabbed the bone saw off the table. 

“Shit!” Harvey yelped. “Look man, just calm down. Just calm down! He didn’t mean it! He didn’t-“ 

Jim had flattened himself back against the bars, as though it would help, but then there was a sudden, pneumatic whistling sound, one that he would recognise anywhere, even in his sleep, and the clown twisted abruptly, as though punched hard in one shoulder with invisible force. 

Then he collapsed, gasping, hands still twitching, bleeding from a shoulder wound. The clown started to crawl, trying to pull himself up, but there was a second shot, that shattered his knee, and the clown screamed in pain. 

There was another whistling shot, and the lock on Jim’s cage door shattered. Hastily, he scrambled out, grabbing the bone saw, and hurried over to Harvey’s cage. The lock was old, and the saw got it sliced open in no time. Snarling, Harvey grabbed the saw from him, heading for the moaning, twitching body on the floor, but Jim hastily grabbed his wrist.

“Harvey. No. He’s still alive. If we stop the bleeding-“

“If we stop the fucking bleeding?” Harvey hissed, incredulous. “I’m going to take his fucking _head_ off with this thing!”

“Harvey. _Harvey_.” 

“He cut that poor bastard open! He was going to cut _you_ up with that saw. I could tell!”

“I know. We’re cops, Harvey. Cops. We’ve got to do this by the book. Harvey!” 

Harvey glared at him, then let out a long, shuddering breath, and dropped the bone saw, heading briskly for the operating table. He put his fingers against the neck of the victim, then scowled anew, and shook his head, looking back. 

Jim was looking up at the sagging fabric of the tent, where the sniper bullets had punched right through without stopping. He couldn’t tell where the sniper might have been hiding, but his money was on the gigantic bulk of the old roller coaster ride, towering in the distance beyond the tent, a two-thousand-feet shot, at the least. Easy for a military-grade sniper.

“Some shot,” Harvey grunted. “Didn’t think that GCPD had that good a shooter in the SWAT team.”

“Does it sound like the GCPD is here to you?” Cops weren’t usually into stealth approach, more like the mass kicking down doors screaming sort of deal.

“Then who is it? Who nailed the fucker and let you out? Shot a lock off a cage _door_? That’s some military shit right there.”

“I don’t know,” Jim said, though he was beginning to have a sneaking suspicion. “Go find our clothes. And the other victims. And a phone. I’ll do what I can to keep this guy from bleeding out.” 

Harvey spat. “Well, don’t try too fucking hard on my account.”


	8. Chapter 8

VIII.

Alfred arched an eyebrow when Gordon returned to the manor in the morning, the only sign of his ordeal a wan smile as Alfred greeted him in the corridor out of the garage. “Hey Alfred.”

“Shouldn’t you be in the hospital, sir?” 

“Harvey managed to bitch us both out of it. I just need to… God. I feel like I just need to sleep for a _week_.”

“All right,” Alfred said gently. “I’ll ask Master Bruce and Cat not to bother you.”

“But first,” Gordon added, “I want to see your room.”

“… bit forward, aren’t we?” Alfred drawled. 

“The news mentioned a Mystery Shooter, didn’t it?”

“Good shot, that man.” 

“Alfred,” Gordon rubbed a hand over his face. “The bullets were NATO rounds, 7.62x51mm. Not exactly what you’d call widely available in Gotham. I called a friend who was still in the Army, who called someone in the Royal Marines’ records department. You won the Queen’s Medal in the Navy and Marines’ sniper competition, two years in a row.” 

“Small arms, too,” Alfred agreed, as innocently as he could. “Your point?” 

“Thanks for saving my life. But what do you have? A L96A1? An Enfield Enforcer?”

“Not sure what you’re getting at, Detective.” 

“Can I see your rooms?”

“Need a warrant, don’t you?”

“Please.” 

Alfred stared at him for a long moment, then he nodded curtly. “This way, then.” 

Thankfully, Bruce and Cat had obeyed his instructions to give Gordon some space, and were out of sight. Gordon followed Alfred to the servant’s quarters, past the kitchens. Most of it was underground, a remnant from a different age, with small boxlike rooms that tended to remind Alfred comfortingly of military dorms. He occupied the one closest to the steps, and made a sarcastic gesture of welcome as Gordon navigated the narrow stairwell. 

Fluorescent light cast the room with harsh shadows, and Gordon looked around it silently, taking in the narrow bed, the old wardrobe, and the small desk piled with a few books and ledgers. The room was as tidy as Alfred could make it, and he had to admit his wardrobe did spill over into the next room, thanks to the old master’s generosity, but that was all. 

“Jesus.” Gordon said. “This place is smaller than my _bathroom_.”

“I find it quite cosy, actually.”

“Does Bruce know that you live down here?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t seem right.” 

Alfred rolled his eyes. “Well, whatever it is. Have at it. Search the room if you want. I’m going to the kitchens to make you a warm cuppa tea. Maybe you’d feel a wee bit more steady after that.”

“No thanks, Alfred. If you could wait where you are, please.”

Gordon actually did search the room, looking in the wardrobe, and even, to Alfred’s amusement, under the bed. When Gordon straightened up, looking a little sheepish, Alfred drawled, “Happy now? No cannons under the bed. D’you want to pry up the floorboards, just to check?” 

“I could’ve sworn…”

“To shoot like that in the dark, at that kind of range, you have to be damned good, son. I could have made those shots years ago, sure, when I was still in the Marines. But you’ve got to shoot a shitload of bullets a day at a firing range to stay that good. Do I look like I have the time to do that?”

“Okay. Sorry.” Gordon deflated a little. “I didn’t know who else might be interested in saving my ass.”

“After the ‘Balloonman’, there’s been a spate of little vigilante incidents out there, yeah? Could be one of them. Worth a check.”

“I guess I’m still a bit. Well. The suspect died under my hands. I couldn’t stop the bleeding. The second bullet nicked an artery.” 

“Good riddance to bad rubbish and all that.”

Gordon scowled. “He didn’t face trial.” 

Alfred shrugged. “Problem?”

“He had the right to a trial.” 

“You Army boys. Always crying over something,” Alfred said, though he smiled faintly as he said this. “Come on then, Detective. Time for bed. Mostly,” he added. “I feel sorry for his other victims.” 

“Yeah. Whatever he gassed _them_ with… it was some sort of neurological agent.” Gordon exhaled, as he climbed back up the stairwell. “God. The youngest of them couldn’t have been much older than _Selina_. That curly-haired kid. His _eyes_ , my God, they were egg yolk yellow. When the medics took them away, the kid was still laughing. At the top of his voice. The gas had done something to his skin. Turned it white like a sheet.”

“Best not to think about that now,” Alfred said comfortingly. “Come on, then.” 

After making sure that Gordon had gone to bed, Alfred headed to the kitchen, then back over to the terrace, where Bruce watched as Cat painstakingly copied out a line from _The Cat in the Hat_. They both looked up when he walked over to them, setting down mugs of hot cocoa and refilling the plate with biscuits.

“How’s he going?” Bruce asked softly.

“Traumatised, but he’ll live.” Alfred glanced over his shoulder, with a snort. “I can’t believe that he thought I’d be the sort who’d hide a bloody rifle under me _bed_. What does he think this is, some sort of B-grade gangster movie? I think I’m a wee bit insulted.”

“Good thing he didn’t find the way down into the big old cave under the house,” Bruce decided, even as Cat giggled. “The manor having its own firing range would’ve been a bit hard to explain.” Bruce pulled a face. “Though I still don’t see why you made me stay at home when we came back to get your kit.”

“Because I had a gut feeling about that abandoned circus, that’s why.” 

“I could have helped.” Cat shot Bruce a pointedly disbelieving stare, and Bruce blushed. “Well, I will. When I’m older.”

“No you bloody ain’t, and God willing, this is the last bloody time we do shit like this.”

“Language, old man,” Cat smirked, and Alfred glowered at her.

“You took _Cat_ ,” Bruce said sullenly. “She had to miss her appointment with that PI and everything.”

“She’s the one who knew where the old circus was, innit? ‘Sides, I don’t know how many carrots you ate when you were younger, girl, but you’ve got crazy natural night vision. I would have broken me ankle a million times over before we even had to climb up that deathtrap of a roller coaster ride, if you hadn’t been there. Good work, team.”

“Yup,” Cat agreed. “You’re an awesome shot, Alfred. Wish you could’ve seen it, Bruce. It was amazing.” Cat mimed sighting down a rifle. 

“As long as we all remember that this is our little secret, eh?” 

“We have other problems,” Bruce said. “Or I do, in any case. I’m concerned over what the killer said to the Detectives, according to the news. That he was ‘auditioning’ to be the first asylum inmate.” 

“You saw what that did,” Alfred pointed out. “The Mayor pledged to fast-track the asylum project, in memory of the victims, etcetera. That’s a good thing, innit?”

“Not if they cut corners to do it.” Bruce pursed his lips. “I’ll have to study the new plans. Get a copy of them once they come out, will you? And I need to speak to the board as well, over the way the land was parcelled out. So far the whole Arkham project and the treatment of its surrounds is profit-motivated. That can’t be what my parents wanted.” 

“You’re _eleven_ ,” Alfred said tiredly. “Shouldn’t you get a wee bit older before you go around starting fires?” 

“We all have our part to play,” Bruce said, in almost the same words as the old master, years upon years ago in the Hindu Kush, and Alfred had to look away hastily, on the pretext of clearing the old plates and cups of milk, a lump in his throat.

8.0.

Barbara called the manor in the morning when Jim was still asleep, affording to Alfred, and after a late lunch, Jim could put it off no longer - he called her back. She was nervous, but sounded relieved. Not just that Jim was alive, he sensed. Relieved that having to wait at the door for him to maybe not come back at all was no longer part of her life. Knowing that ought to have hurt more than it did.

They talked for a while, about her gallery, for the most part, for the upcoming exhibition that she was organising, and at the end, hesitantly, Barbara said, “Jim. About the break. Between us. It’s been… it’s been good for me. Sorry. I don’t know if… I don’t know if we can ever, well, get back to before.”

“It’s okay, Barb. I understand.”

“I’m sorry, Jim. I know most of it’s my fault.”

“No. No it’s not,” Jim assured her. “I’m serious. It’s not. You helped me out once when I was in a bad place. Part of me will always love for you for that. But it’s Gotham.” 

“It’s Gotham,” Barbara agreed, in a whisper. “Damn this city. Take care, Jim.” 

He had been given a week off, as had Harvey, and he found himself awkwardly pottering around the manor until Alfred had pointedly installed him in Selina’s company. The PI who called at the manor in mid afternoon had no updates. Selina’s father himself believed that he had killed Mrs Kyle in a drunken frenzy, and blamed the blackout for why he didn’t remember where the body was. There had been no word from the shelters. The PI was going to start calling in favours from interstate.

“Sounds like good work so far,” Jim told Selina, when the PI had left: an affable, pudgy ex-NYPD detective by the name of Chris Nolan. “I think he probably used to be a good cop, before he retired.”

“Alfred says he is. He does some work for Wayne Enterprises. Background checks, mostly, but investigative stuff too.” Selina kicked up her heels, still perched on the couch. “I’m okay. I’m okay. It’s just gonna take time.”

“Yeah. You’ll find her,” Jim said encouragingly. “I’ve never met anyone as determined as you are.” 

Selina grinned at him. “Alfred says that I’m a bloody pain in the arse.”

Jim grimaced. “He doesn’t mean it.” 

“Sure he does. Let’s go drive around the city. Feed some cats. You’ve got nothing else to do for a week, right?” 

“I’m on _leave_ , not a bum,” Jim corrected. “I was going to look for a new place. For rent.”

“Really? What for? This place is _awesome_.” 

“It is. But it’s Bruce’s house.”

“So? He has lots of rooms.”

“I don’t think I should be mooching off him. It’s all right for you,” Jim added hastily, when Selina frowned. “You cut a deal with Alfred, right? I’m glad that you’re here.”

“Well, I’m glad that _you’re_ here,” Selina said, with a pout. “You could cut a deal with them too. Pay rent, maybe. Or… you’re working for Bruce anyway. You’re looking for who really killed his mum and dad.”

“That’s my _job_ , not part of a deal.”

“You are so weird,” Selina told him loftily. “C’mon. City. Car. Cats. It’ll be good for you. Shopping _and_ animal therapy. Bruce isn’t going to be done with whatever lessons he’s in until later anyway.”

“You could be an animal doctor,” Jim told her later, when they stopped in an alleyway. “When you’re older." 

“Just for cats?”

“If you like.”

She thought this over, then shook her head, as she poured out kibble for their third stop of the day. “Nah. Vets got to put down old cats, don’t they? I don’t think I could do that. Even if they were hurting. Besides. People put cats down for stupid reasons. See this kitty?” Selina bent, rubbing behind the ears of a scarred gray tom, one-eyed, ears both chewed, with a limp in his left hind leg. “They probably would put him down just for the hell of it.”

“You could bring it back to the manor,” Jim said absently, and grinned. He imagined that few things could possibly irritate Alfred more than an influx of semi-feral cats into his perfectly dusted world. 

“Hah!” Selina grinned too. “Maybe. But I think Alfred would just put on some heavy gloves, wash the hell out of it, and then make sure it knows that dinner is at ‘bloody’ eight.” 

Alfred frowned at them, after, when he greeted them at the foyer and they both smirked at the sight of him. Selina sauntered off to pester Bruce, and Jim followed Alfred back to the kitchen, ignoring Alfred’s pointed attempts to get him to leave. 

“I’m sure that I can help with something,” Jim repeated stubbornly, as he walked into the kitchen on Alfred’s heels. “Oh my God, it smells _amazing_.” Diced vegetables were being sauteed on a pan, and two large pots were bubbling on the stove, covered and on a low fire. Something was even baking in the oven, some sort of pie and-

“Detective,” Alfred said, then, “ _Jim_ ,” more urgently, and Jim managed to tear his eyes away from the partly-cleaned chicken on the chopping board, its giblets in a bowl and- “Hey,” Alfred added, more sharply, grabbing Jim’s elbow with an unyielding strength. He frogmarched Jim gently but firmly out of the kitchens, Jim breathing hard and stumbling, blinking as he was forced to sit down in a chair at the terrace table. He took large gulps of the fresh air, even as Alfred strode away and returned with a glass of rich amber liquid.

Jim took a sniff. “Brandy?” 

“Think of it as medicinal in moderate quantities, sir. Have a drink. There we go.” Alfred patted Jim’s arm soothingly as he drank, the brandy smooth and rich on his tongue, warming him as he went down. “There we go.” 

“Sorry.”

“What’re you sorry for?” Alfred asked mildly. “D’you want to have dinner in your room tonight? I could just fix you up a nice soup. Something light.” 

“No, that’s fine. I’ll be all right.” 

“If you’re sure,” Alfred said doubtfully, “Because it’d be no trouble, and I can’t be having you dropping into a dead faint over the dinner setting.” Alfred smiled faintly as he said that, but Jim blushed anyway. 

“Sorry.” Jim carefully set the glass down on the table. “I’m sorry about this morning too. Demanding to check your rooms and everything. I was just. I was really… wired.” 

Alfred shrugged. “No offense taken.” 

“I was just so _sure_ that-“ Jim shook his head. “Sorry.” 

“And there you go again, apologising for nothing,” Alfred drawled. “Detective. If you hadn’t been half out of your mind from what you went through, and still getting over your missus on the top of that, I would’ve been more than pleased to show you me room. Particularly the bed. There. Direct enough for you?”

Jim had no hope of stopping the blush this time. “I… you… Really?”

“Bloody Army,” Alfred drawled, “Always needs shit done in triplicate for you people to take notice. It wasn’t appropriate then. Still ain’t appropriate now, or fair. But maybe a wee bit down the track-“

“You Jarheads,” Jim said, as he smiled, slow at first, wider, genuine, “Always think you know goddamned everything.” 

“Ah-ah, ‘Jarheads’ are the US Marines. We’re the Royals. Or the Bootnecks, if you must.” Alfred didn’t move when Jim got to his feet though, nor when Jim drew close, pressing his palms tentatively over Alfred’s arms. 

“Same shit, different name.”

“I beg your bloody pardon-“ Alfred began, offended, but he didn’t step away when Jim leaned in, though he murmured, “Jim.” 

“Maybe I should have a say in what’s ‘fair’,” Jim noted, and Alfred huffed out a low laugh even as Jim closed the last of the distance between them. He had to lean up for it, and after a moment, Alfred got a warm hand behind the back of his neck, his mouth pressed hard against Jim’s but closed, tense, all his considerable natural strength barely battened down, unyielding under roving hands. 

Alfred’s stare felt molten when they parted, hungry, even, and as Jim licked his lips a little nervously, a thrill jolting through his veins, Alfred seemed to start to say something - then he looked sharply over at the door and sighed.

“All right, kids, show’s bloody over,” Alfred growled, pulling away from Jim and making shooing gestures at the door, where Bruce and Selina were watching them with open curiosity. 

“That’s the worst kiss I’ve ever seen,” Selina said critically. “No tongue?”

“Tongue?” Bruce asked, puzzled. 

“ _Cat!_ ” Jim yelped. 

“Not a further word, young lady.” Alfred glowered at them both until the children retreated, then he sighed. “She’s just worsening Master Bruce’s bad habits.” 

“I, uh, Alfred-“

“Hey,” Alfred said quietly. “There’s no rush. Just sort yourself out first.” He checked his watch. “Have to turn the pot roast. Talk later. If you like.” 

‘Later’ turned out to be after dinner and an episode of the Gray Ghost, when Jim put the sleepy kids to bed. Jim steeled himself when he walked into the kitchen, but it was spotless, cleared of everything but a covered bowl that smelled like rising dough, Alfred already busily wiping down the cups they had used during the show. 

“I’m going to have to put a ‘Keep Out’ sign on that door,” Alfred said, without turning around. “I don’t like other people in here.” 

“I know,” Jim said, and dared to walk up behind Alfred, settling his hands on Alfred’s hips. Alfred tensed up for a moment as Jim nuzzled the nape of his neck, again having to tip up a little to reach the slip of skin bared between hairline and pressed collar, then Alfred made a low, rumbling sound and wiped down his hands, turning around, and this time the kiss was far better, Alfred licking into his mouth as Jim clutched at his shoulders and moaned. 

“You,” Alfred breathed. “Jim.” 

“Selina told Bruce that I wanted to move out.”

“She told me as well,” Alfred said, his tone neutral, although his eyes were fixed on Jim’s mouth, promisingly enough.

“Bruce asked me to stay.” 

“‘Course he would. And I’ll like you to stay as well,” Alfred added, when Jim opened his mouth again. “Not only because you being here’s been good for the young master: I’m not ashamed to say that I’m a wee bit out of my depth on that one.” 

“I think you’re doing a sight better than some people who actually _are_ parents,” Jim disagreed. 

Alfred’s mouth tipped up into a faint smirk. “And I do appreciate the eye candy.”

“I’ll like to stay,” Jim conceded softly. 

He had always been attracted to strength. Barbara had strength of her own, headstrong, unyielding, and he had loved her for that. Alfred’s strength was like flint, like bedrock, and Jim wanted that now: especially now, when the rest of his life felt like he was trying to walk on quicksand. It was a selfish want, perhaps, but he couldn’t quite feel guilty about it, not with Alfred’s arms curled around the small of his back, all hard muscle under his rolled-up sleeves.

“Good.”

Jim tried a grin. “Maybe it’s just because you’re such a great cook.” 

“Way to a man’s heart, eh,” Alfred drawled, though he kissed Jim on the forehead, soft and fleeting. 

“I think I should pay rent of some sort, though.”

“Pay the money to some charity,” Alfred shrugged, as Jim thought he would. “And we’ll call it even. Now shove off. I’ve got a hundred things to do.” He kissed Jim lower down, between his eyes, and Jim let out a soft breath as he tilted up to get a last kiss, brushed firmly across his mouth.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I am too lazy to research the layout of San Diego Zoo in the 1980sish (or whatever magical timeline Gotham is in which has flip phones and boxy computers), so this SDZ in the fic exists in a magical timeline where the exhibits are they way they are in the fic.

one week on: selina

The last time Selina had gone to a zoo, her mother had taken her, holding on tightly to her five-year-old hand as she had been tugged this way and that through the crowds. Her mother had been wearing heavy make up that didn’t quite hide the flowering bruise over her left cheek, and she was limping from being thrown against the door two nights ago, but to Selina, then, her mother had been her hero.

To come to Gotham zoo, to pay for entry for the both of them, her mother had stood up briefly to Selina’s father. Had asked him for _money_. And she had been crafty about it too, made him a big dinner, waited until he had become sleepy. Selina’s father had objected at first, said it was an unnecessary expense, but her mother had argued, gently, then pleaded, and then - the zoo! 

This time round, Selina was holding someone else’s hand against the crowds: Bruce’s, as they stood side by sided and studied the new snow leopard exhibit in the San Diego zoo. Beside them, Jim and Alfred were studying a map: Alfred wanted to explore the zoo in an ‘efficient circuit’, Jim seemed more inclined to ‘just let the kids pick where they want to go’. 

“They normally live at elevations of 9,800 to 14,800 feet,” Bruce told her earnestly. “I read it in a book.” 

Bruce read books the way people drank water. He was a strange kid. “They’re really fluffy.”

“It’s camouflage. Where they’re from, they’re really hard to pick out against the snow and rock.” 

“Cool.” In the exhibit, two cubs pounced and squabbled playfully as their mother watched on, lounging on a large log, suspended over the rocks in the refrigerated enclosure.

“They’re quite endangered though. People poach them for their fur.”

“People are dicks.” Selina couldn’t quite imagine why anyone would kill something as beautiful as the animals in the enclosure, just to rip their fur off. 

“Language, miss,” Alfred said automatically. He sighed when Jim grabbed the map out of his hands and handed it to Selina. 

“Both of you haven’t been here before. So why don’t you decide what to see next?” 

“Tigers,” Selina said immediately. 

“If we leave it to them, we’re just going to look at cats all day,” Alfred grumbled.

“We can look at giraffes too,” Selina conceded. “They’re cool.”

“I like spiders,” Bruce said, very seriously. “Their webs have really high tensile strength for the material type.”

Jim shot Alfred an accusing look, but Alfred merely arched an eyebrow at him. “Okay,” Selina said, deciding to ignore the adults, who had been silly all week anyway, what with the weird soft-footed dance they’d been doing around each other since Selina and Bruce had caught them necking. “Sounds cool. We can go see the spiders. It’s in the exhibit with the scorpions.”

“Spiders and scorpions?” Alfred grimaced. “Hate the damned things. Do we really have to?”

“I’m sure it’s educational. Probably,” Jim said doubtfully. “Everything in the zoo is educational, right?”

“Education for me bloody nightmares, that’s what it’ll be.”

Bruce smiled at Cat as the adults started bickering again, and squeezed her hand, the way her mother had once, when they had stood outside Gotham zoo’s tiger exhibit, and just like she had then, Selina smiled and squeezed back. This time round, Selina was the one looking after someone, even if Bruce was a bit of a weird kid. For a moment, it had felt like they were family, this way, just the four of them, but the moment passed. Her mum was still out there. Waiting for Selina to find her. 

“After the tigers,” Selina added, and watched as one of the cubs clawed its way up to its mother, mewling. Soon.

one year on: bruce

Bruce had never been to a diner before. Everyone was dressed down, in jeans and tees, the tables were booths, and bare rather than blanketed in cloth. The seats were slightly greasy and scuffed at the edges, and pride of place was a long plastic counter that ran the length of the narrow diner, lined with a coffee machine and taps of beer. The air was thick with the smell of oily chips, and the walls were determinedly papered over by scores of framed, fading newspaper clippings and old photographs.

Beside him, Cat grinned broadly as she picked up the laminated menu. “Caramel milkshakes!”

“You’re going to be unbearable when high on sugar, young lady,” Alfred told her grumpily, sitting opposite Bruce, wedged between Jim and the grimy window. “Did we _really_ have to come here? Really?” he added, in a low voice, but Bruce had known Alfred long enough to sense that there wasn’t very much temper behind his apparent irritation. “Couldn’t we have gone to Lawrie’s?” 

“Bruce said I could pick the place, since _I’m_ the one with something to celebrate,” Jim retorted. “It’s the best diner in Gotham.”

“If you’re not worried about getting a bloody heart attack,” Alfred muttered, but he ordered a beer just the same, along with Jim. Bruce and Cat ordered milkshakes, and Jim ordered some sort of House Special burger for all of them, and chips, ignoring Alfred when Alfred tried to make noises about getting a salad. 

“Congratulations,” Bruce raised the huge milkshake when it arrived. “To becoming Detective Sergeant.” 

The toast was messy, but Jim grinned through it and then kissed Alfred on the cheek after, beer foam and all, immune to Alfred’s yelp of indignation and glare. 

“May it be the first promotion of many,” Alfred said gruffly, as he wiped his cheek pointedly with his pocket handkerchief. “Much deserved.” 

“Thanks. I won’t have gotten it so quickly without everyone’s help.” Cat cleared her throat. “Especially Cat,” Jim added dryly.

“I still think that I could help more,” Bruce complained. Jim had categorically banned Bruce from visiting any further crime scenes, after he had heard of Bruce’s involvement in investigating the Arthouse murders. The ban hadn’t extended to Cat. It wasn’t fair.

“You’ve got your own battles to fight,” Jim told Bruce soberly. “If not now, then later.” 

“I don’t just want to fight corporate battles forever,” Bruce said, trying not to pout. “I want to help the police too. Detective work. Breaking up organised crime-“

“Corporate battles are just as important,” Alfred said severely. “Wayne Enterprises runs most of what keeps this city ticking, Master Bruce. The police might be pretty bad at detective work but they’re not _that bad_ -“

“Hey,” Jim prodded Alfred in the ribs, though he was grinning. “I’m right here.” 

“A thirteen-year-old girl had to help you solve four of your cases so far, _Detective_. Including the big one that got you your promotion.”

“It’s okay. I was paid,” Cat was already halfway through her milkshake, to Bruce’s surprise. Drinking the extremely sweet, thick liquid had been a bit of a challenge on his end.

“Cat kibble does not count as pay.” 

“Works for me.” 

“There you see,” Jim said dryly. “It works for her.”

Alfred and Jim bickered until the food arrived, on huge plates, and this again was new. Alfred was always meticulous with servings, everything in its place, everything perfectly cut or diced. This burger was a huge patty liberally slathered in oily cheese, crushing tomatoes and token lettuce under its weight, haphazardly balanced between two buns of bread that were burned black at the edges. It was also nestled in what Bruce could only call a… splash of chips, all thick cut in different sizes, dusted in salt. 

Bruce stared at it dubiously for a moment. “Maybe I could eat it with a knife and fork.”

“Oh God, you’ve ruined him,” Jim told Alfred, who sniffed.

“I’ll ask the waitress for a-“

“Oh no you don’t. Bruce, here’s how you eat a burger. Just look at Cat. She’s doing fine.”

“But everything’s… going everywhere. Disintegrating. And dripping.”

“Sign of a good burger,” Cat said indistinctly, mouth full. “Omphgh _man_. So good.”

Encouraged, Bruce managed after a couple of attempts to pick up the burger, and the first bite was… interesting. He tried another.

“Good?” Jim asked. 

“Better than I thought,” Bruce conceded, though he added loyally, “Alfred’s sandwiches are better.”

“That’s different,” Jim said, and looked to Cat for help, but she seemed to be singlehandedly intent on cramming burger and milkshake down her throat as quickly as possible. “Hey, slow down there, Cat.”

“Better than Alfred’s - mph - sandwiches,” Cat said, still indistinctly, and smirked around another bite.

“Them’s fighting words, girl,” Alfred told her, working his way through his burger with somewhat more delicacy. “You think this is a good burger? I’ll show you a bloody good burger. Tomorrow. Lunch.”

“Chips? Not salad?”

“Yeah. I guarantee you’ve never tried chippies done the way they really should be done.” 

“You’re on,” Cat decided. “Milkshake too?”

“I’ll think about it,” Alfred said loftily. “We’re talking about burgers, not bloody milkshakes.”

“I’m working tomorrow,” Jim complained. “I won’t get to try your burger.”

“You’re not the one casting aspersions on my cooking,” Alfred told him, but when Jim stared hopefully, added, with some irritation, “I’ll whip one up for you for breakfast. Happy?” 

“That’s some trick,” Cat said enviously. “Getting Alfred to do what you want just by staring at him.”

“Young lady-“

“Not really,” Bruce said absently. He had just tried a chip, dipping it into the tomato sauce provided. It was… not bad, he decided, although Alfred’s housemade tomato sauce was better. 

“Alfred’s obliged to listen to you, But he doesn’t really give a damn about the rest of us. Most of the rest of us,” Cat added, with a pointed look at Jim, then she grinned when he flushed a little, his ears going red. “Aww. You’re funny when you do that.”

“You’re going to be a holy terror when you grow up, miss,” Alfred told her acidly, though he pretended not to notice when Jim shifted a fraction of an inch closer against him. Bruce smiled to himself. His family now might be a little unconventional, but he wouldn’t give it up for the world.

five years on: jim

It was past midnight by the time Jim stumbled out of the cab and into the manor, pleasantly soused. He was yawning as Alfred greeted him at the door, and when Jim pulled Alfred against him, Alfred eyed him with amusement. “Tipsy or drunk?”

“Mm. Thinking.” Jim nuzzled Alfred’s neck, nosing under his jaw, over the sleek line of the collar. “Bruce and Selina?”

“Asleep. Told them not to wait up for you.” Alfred started to lead Jim through the foyer, a warm palm against the small of his back. “Lieutenant Gordon.” 

“Mmmhmm.” Jim tried to nuzzle Alfred again, but only got swatted lightly for his trouble. “Now I outrank you.”

“Don’t you start. Master Bruce and Cat were so _very_ amused about that detail all through dinner.” 

“‘Least she’s still here,” Jim mumbled, as they meandered their way towards his room. “She still want to leave?” 

“It’s within her right to.” Alfred studied Jim soberly. “You know she was never satisfied with Nolan’s findings. Even though she herself said that he’d tried his damnedest. She’s eighteen now, anyway. And she’s always done what she likes.”

“Bruce taking it well?”

“Not particularly. They’re the best of friends. God knows it’s all I can do to convince him not to go with her. What a flaming disaster _that_ would be. Here you go,” Alfred added, closing the door to Jim’s room and tugging him to the bed. “Have a nap and some aspirin in the morning.”

Grinning, Jim tripped Alfred onto the bed, and they wrestled briefly until Alfred had rolled back on top, his impeccable dove gray three-piece suit now less than perfect. When Alfred started to protest, Jim wound his fingers around the silver tie and tugged playfully, and Alfred sighed, bracing his weight off Jim with his elbows. 

“Are you even sober enough to get it up?”

“I’m younger than you are.” Jim rolled his hips - and the tent in his trousers - against Alfred’s belly.

“God, don’t remind me.” Alfred obligingly shifted up to allow Jim to kiss him, still a little rigid at first, then more demandingly, when Jim managed to work open his vest and wedge a thigh between Alfred’s legs. When Jim started to rub himself against Alfred’s hip, moaning breathlessly through his kisses, Alfred let out a low, rumbling laugh and slapped him on the ass. “All right. Jesus. You’re bloody sober enough. Up you get. To the shower.”

“Really?” Jim had Alfred’s tie mostly undone, his collar buttons two down, and had his mouth pressed against Alfred’s pulse - at the first playful nip, Alfred growled, a roughened hand jumping to the nape of Jim’s neck and squeezing lightly. Jim moaned: he loved Alfred like this, self-control pushed close to the edge, not playing at being the loyal servant; it didn’t take very much to draw the tiger out from under its assumed skin. “You could just have me like this. I don’t mind.”

“I do.” Alfred retorted, though the words seem to take some effort to voice.

Alfred’s fastidiousness meant getting cleaned up in the shower whenever Jim wanted to be fucked seven ways to Saturday, but it was worth it, getting pinned to the tiles with Alfred’s teeth at his throat. Under the three piece suit, Alfred’s body was a solid mass of muscle, more soldier than butler, not that Jim had ever seen Alfred working out or doing anything more strenuous than vacuuming or gardening. It was a mystery still, and Jim loved it, loved running his hands over old scars that Alfred never liked to explain, loved getting pinned down and held still by someone that was just bigger and stronger than he was, someone he could _trust_. 

By the time Jim and Alfred had made it back to the bed, Jim was drunk again, this time on lust, scratching at Alfred’s arms as he reached for the lube and tipping his hips up eagerly when Alfred let out a strangled sound and grabbed a pillow to tuck beneath them. Alfred was _big_ , another thing Jim really liked, long and thick and still so goddamned _methodical_ as he slicked up fingers to work Jim open, pinning him down with an arm over his wrists and ignoring Jim’s whimpers and groans, though he grit his teeth and cursed when Jim braced himself against the headboard and tried to squirm down over his fingers.

“Nearly there, Christ,” Alfred was panting already, and when Jim let out a low whine, Alfred smirked at him and licked a teasing stripe up his cock, sealing his lips briefly over the swollen tip and then jerking back when Jim tried to push into the maddening heat. 

“Please just get _on_ with it or… or I’ll keep ‘accidentally’ walking into the kitchen for a week. Walk around the… ngh _fuck_ manor tilting all the paintings-“

Alfred let out a huff of irritation and glowered at him, but Jim grinned back, pushing his knees invitingly wider, and in the end, as he’d thought, Alfred broke first, hastily slicking himself up and starting to push in: God he was _huge_ and the stretch _hurt_ but Jim blew out a strangled breath and tried to tug Alfred deeper with the balls of his feet, digging his heels into Alfred’s back. 

That never did any good. If Alfred was on top, everything had to be done by his rules, and Jim was all too aware that Alfred’s self-control was phenomenal. “If you even bloody _think_ about even _touching_ the paintings,” Alfred growled into his ear, as he pressed deeper, inch by slow inch, “I’ll make sure that you regret it.”

“Yeah?” Jim grinned up at Alfred, dazed from the stretch, God, the fullness, his heart hammering in his chest, pinned down with nowhere to go, “What would you do?”

“Hmm,” Alfred’s hum was more like a rumbling growl, hot and rough against his cheek. “Might make you wear a cock ring,” he drawled, and his accent, that damned _smirk_ : Jim whimpered and hardened against Alfred’s belly. “Fuck, you’d like that, wouldn’t you. A cock cage then, you cheeky little shit. You could take it up the arse any way you like and you wouldn’t even get hard.” 

“Fuck,” Jim choked breathlessly, and now Alfred was balls deep, so good. “Fuck.” Wearing something like that in bed, while Alfred fucked him. Worse, wearing it through the day, during _work_.

Alfred watched him, narrow-eyed and flushed, teeth bared in a thin sliver of white, and then he laughed, low and dark and in a way that made Jim squirm breathlessly over Alfred’s cock and whine again. “Were you thinking about this all night?” Alfred drawled, “Lieutenant?” 

“Why do you say _left_ -tenant?” Jim asked, but he whimpered when Alfred pulled back only a finger’s breadth before grinding back to the hilt, nowhere near enough friction or force. “Yes! Yes I was.” 

“Rather naughty of you, don’t you think? Might be a wee bit rude, even.” 

“Maybe you should’a fucked me harder in the morning,” Jim grinned challengingly. 

“Wanted to limp through your big day, did you?” 

“Most of them probably - ngh, Alfred, _please_ \- suspect something anyway. Harvey does. Please move. You’re _killing_ me here.”

Instead of moving, Alfred merely studied him for a long moment before smirking and rolling, tugging Jim with him, until Alfred was sitting up with Jim in his lap, straight-backed, all military poise even in bed, and he laughed when Jim wasted no time in pushing himself up on his knees and rocking down with a bitten-off groan of contentment. 

“Well show me then,” Alfred slapped Jim playfully on the ass. “How hard did you want it this morning?” 

“Jesus,” Jim braced his hands on Alfred’s shoulders, shifted his knees, and got a kiss, hard, biting; when he finally went to town he could hear the bed creaking under their weight, driving them both against the sheets, Alfred’s breaths in harsh and hungry gasps bitten out against Jim’s skin, his big hands clenched tight enough on Jim’s hips that there’d be print-shaped marks on it tomorrow. Jim twisted until he finally got Alfred’s cock where he wanted it, in just the _right_ spot, and he screamed when Alfred grunted and shoved up against him. 

When Jim’s legs started to give out, Alfred muttered something incoherent and rolled down over again, pressing Jim back on the bed and holding up his hips as the next thrust went punishingly deep, and it was always better this way, watching Alfred’s control crack wide open, his lust so raw that sometimes it felt more animal than human, and it was always like this, at this moment, that Jim would get swept off the edge, overwhelmed, his cry shuddering against the teeth closed over his neck. 

Alfred was always absolutely quiet when he finished, only with a hitch to his breathing and a sudden clench of his fingers over Jim’s hips. It took him a moment to steady his breath, and then Alfred was pulling out, padding away to the bathroom to get a towel to clean them both up, ignoring Jim’s feeble grabs for his arm. When Alfred started to dress, however, Jim sat up, wincing a little, and confiscated his belt. 

“Jim.”

“Leaving already?” Jim pressed his lips to the coil of leather, and grinned as Alfred’s gaze visibly darkened. 

“Did you want bread for breakfast or not?”

“Think I’d rather have you in bed until breakfast.” 

“What sort of proper breakfast d’you think that would be then, eh?” 

“You’d figure something out,” Jim said complacently. “What about pancakes? I like pancakes. They don’t take long to make either.”

“You’re not the only person living in this house,” Alfred said severely, but he allowed Jim to tug him back into the bed and settle him in. “Bloody bad influence.”

“Yeah? What are you going to do about that?”

Alfred confiscated the belt, and curled an arm lazily under Jim, his fingers splaying lightly over Jim’s spine. “Few ideas,” Alfred drawled, and slapped the loop of leather lightly against the backs of Jim’s thighs, making him hiss and bite down on his lower lip to swallow a moan. “God,” Alfred added, more roughly. “To think that you used to strike me as such a _nice_ boy.”

“Mmhmm,” Jim snuggled closer, tucking his head under Alfred’s chin, and breathed in deep. “It’s the company I keep.”

ten years on: alfred

Alfred scowled darkly at Customs, even as Jim started to tug pointedly at his elbow. “Bruce’s gone,” Jim said gently. “C’mon. We’ve got to head off.”

“I still don’t see why he had to fly _commercial_.”

“Because if _you_ flew him over to Bombay you’d probably insist on following him. Or at least stalking him.” Jim shrugged. “So he wants to spend a year or so wandering the world. That’s not unusual.”

“By himself!” Alfred objected, though he made sure to lower his voice. “That boy is worth 31 _billion_ dollars, Jim. Anything could bloody happen.”

“He’s going incognito. Relax. And ‘that boy’ is twenty-one. Not really a kid any longer, is he? Bruce can take care of himself. You made sure of that,” Jim kept tugging until Alfred reluctantly conceded, allowing himself to be pulled out to the car park, where the Bentley was waiting. Gotham had etched its mark onto Jim Gordon: Jim glanced around the car park for any sign of trouble before heading with Alfred to the Bentley. 

Age hadn’t been entirely kind to the both of them: Alfred had more silver in his hair now than black - though Jim said it made him look ‘distinguished’, and Jim had hard worry-lines etched into his face, and a little silver in his hair. He was also, to Alfred’s irritation, growing some sort of furry… thing, on his lip, which Jim insisted was a moustache to camouflage his stubbornly boyish good looks. It had been Harvey Bullock’s idea, damn his hide.

“You’re staring again,” Jim told Alfred dryly. “Seriously. There’s nothing wrong with the moustache. I like it. Montoya likes it, even.” 

“You’re now her boss. She has to tell you she likes it.”

“That’s not how she’s wired. Wish it was. My life would be easier.” Jim settled into the front passenger seat, even as Alfred closed the driver side door. “Barbara invited us over, by the way. Next week. So you’d get to meet Montoya at last.”

“And you’ve only just remembered to mention this, eh?”

“Well,” Jim said wryly, “It’s not like you would have remembered anyway, what with Bruce leaving Gotham today to wander the earth. We should go. It’s not like you’ve got much else to do now, right?”

Alfred snorted. Bruce had left him with Bruce’s veto power, with regards to Wayne Enterprises’ new board of directors, following the shake up from last year. So far, everything seemed to be running fine, but it didn’t take long for the rot to set in sometimes, in Gotham. He was going to have his hands full. “Maybe.”

“Aww, come on. You can’t still dislike Montoya. You’ve never even _met_ her. She’s a good cop.”

“She also tried to ruin you over a murder that you never committed. That never even _happened_. Just out of sheer spite.” 

“That’s not true. She was doing her job,” Jim said stubbornly, forever inclined to think the best of certain people, especially those under his command. “I think you’d like her. Seriously.” 

“We’ll see,” Alfred decided, though he knew that when Jim made up his mind about something like this, something had to give, and it usually wasn’t Jim. 

“I’ve got to head back in to work,” Jim said apologetically. “Harvey said he’d cover for me long enough for me to send off Bruce, but I have to go back. We’ve got a lead on that big trafficking case.”

“I’ll drop you off at the station.” 

“Thanks.” Jim looked at him worriedly. “You’re going to be fine, right? I mean. With Bruce going off and all. And Selina off god-knows-where over in sub-Saharan Africa, or wherever she is nowadays.”

“She’s on the island of Jersey, actually. Doing a study at the Durrell Wildlife Park. Called in yesterday for a bit of a chat and to talk to Bruce. I think he’d probably pop by to see her sometime.” 

“Hope so,” Jim said, with a quick grin at Alfred’s tone. “We could visit her too. You could fly us over on the weekend.”

“I do recall you saying something or other last night about having to learn to ‘let go of things’,” Alfred pointed out, as he pulled out of the car park.

“That was in context of trying to persuade you not to start quietly stalking Bruce during his world trip.” 

“If I were ten years younger,” Alfred grumbled, but he had conceded the point then, and he still - if grumpily - conceded it now. He was to old to follow Bruce around the world. What he was best placed to do was to watch over the Wayne legacy in Gotham, and keep it primed for its master’s eventual return. “All right. This weekend. I’ll ring up, see if she’ll be free.”

“We’ll have to get her a present,” Jim decided, and Alfred let Jim chatter on about it as he navigated traffic back into the city proper, meandering his way down to the precinct. When they were about a block away, Jim pressed a palm over his thigh. “Okay. You can let me off here.”

“Thought you said everyone knew about your living arrangements.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t looking to give the precinct a free show.” Jim drawled, which was all the warning Alfred got before Jim was clambering heavily over into his lap to kiss him, knees everywhere and laughing as Alfred growled and shoved at him but kissed him back anyway, because Jim was maddening as all hell like this, his hands caught in Alfred’s tie and the heat of him sprawled over Alfred’s legs. 

“Get off,” Alfred told him, with mock-severity. “Go to work. What are our taxes paying for, eh?”

Jim grinned at him, though he slipped off back to the front-passenger seat, opening the door. “See you at home. I don’t think I’d be working a night shift. Perks of rank and all that.”

“See you at home,” Alfred echoed, for Jim Gordon was now as much a part of Wayne Manor as Alfred himself was, as Bruce was, and even Selina, in her own way. They were his world now, in a way more than even Thomas and Martha had been, more than the Marines had once been, and Alfred could only treasure that, as fiercely as he could. “Dinner will be at eight.”

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent
> 
> For readers of DC, the casefic part of this fic might be immediately obvious. Alan Moore's Joker story, the Killing Joke, is one of the most iconic comics in DCverse, and one of my favourite Batman graphic novels (even if Alan Moore ended up hating his own work, etc). Although the clown in this fic is not the Joker, the kid they mentioned getting wheeled off (one of the victims) will be. :) 
> 
> Thanks everyone for reading! I thought this pairing might be too obscure... ^^ Glad to find it isn't.


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